


Behind Closed Doors

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Coworkers - Freeform, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-magical AU, Normal AU, Secrets, Workplace AU, Workplace Relationship, covert relationship, not so slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-03-06 01:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Non-magical AU. Baz is doing his best to keep his mother's beloved Watford afloat but CEO David Mage is making that more difficult with each passing day. The finances are what Baz needs to focus on but Mage's personal assistant, the devastatingly attractive Simon Snow, is becoming more and more of a distraction. The annual company Christmas party unexpectedly throws them together and their mutual pining results in a clandestine relationship that could threaten both of their careers and break their hearts. Miscommunication, misunderstandings, nosy coworkers, overbearing bosses, and the challenges of speaking from the heart create mayhem for them both. Of note this is starting as a T rating but may well go up to an M.Originally conceived as a one-shot gift fic for Krisrix that has now burgeoned into a full blown multi-chapter fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisRix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/gifts).



> Title from the New Order song by the same name.

**Behind Closed Doors**

 

**Baz**

I can’t get out of David Mage’s office fast enough. I thought weekly one-on-one meetings with him were torture but now he’s moved them up to twice a week, as we reach the end of year, and it’s simply excruciating. 

I hate him. I hate this job. I’ve come to despise working at Watford, which breaks my heart. But I won’t leave. I’m going to stay the course and I’ll be damned if I don’t outlast Mage here. 

My mother started this company. This is her legacy and I won’t let that pompous bastard ruin it. 

He’s doing his best to do just that. The numbers bear that out. Month after month I’ve been trying to communicate to him what a disaster his policies are. How they’re actually weakening the company. He just spouts some drivel about “ _fresh starts”_ and _“thinking outside the box”_ and then the phrase I absolutely abhor: “ _take it to the next level_.”

I damn near leveled him when he said that today.

Father still sits on the Board of Directors but it hasn’t been much help. Somehow the rest of the Board has morphed into collection of lackeys for Mage; sycophants, supporters, cronies. It’s sickening. I think the only reason Father still has a seat is because he started Watford with Mother. They can’t vote him out. 

At least I don’t think they can. 

I’m storming down the corridor to get to the blessed isolation of my office when a voice calls out behind me. 

“Baz!” 

I can’t deal with Snow right now. I really can’t. I quicken my pace but the wanker just speeds up to catch me. Literally. He actually tugs at my sleeve. 

I stop and level a glare at him. “What do you want, Snow? Some of us have work to do to keep this company afloat.” 

Simon Snow is Mage’s personal assistant. His right hand man. His closest confidant and staunchest supporter. His jack of all trades. 

I wish I could hate him as much as I hate Mage. I’ve tried. 

I’m stupid enough to have fallen in love with him instead. It’s a cross I have to bear, but at this moment being in his presence after that disastrous meeting is almost more than I can handle. 

“You haven’t sent in an RSVP for the Christmas party yet. I need to send the final number to the caterer today. I’ve sent you three emails about it, Baz.” 

I arch my brow and give Snow my iciest sneer. “As if I have time to read frivolous emails about social gatherings. It’s end of year, Snow. The busiest time for the financial department, which you should know. Happens this time every year.” 

“Christmas comes this time each year,” Snow mumbles. 

Did he really just quote the Beach Boys most idiotic lyric at me? It shouldn’t surprise me that Snow likes that utterly insipid Christmas song. It’s absolutely endearing that he does. 

I harden my heart against his charm. 

“Yes, Snow. I’m quite aware. End of year financial accounting also comes this time each year and that’s rightfully occupying far more of my attention than the utterly useless Christmas party you’re harping about.” 

He looks hurt. I internally curse myself. It’s not Snow’s fault I’m in this mood. It’s not Snow’s fault that he’s in charge of the dreaded Watford annual Christmas party. It’s not Snow’s fault I’m in love with him. 

Actually, that last one is entirely Snow’s fault. He can’t walk around this place with that riot of disheveled bronze curls, the constellations of moles and freckles on his tawny skin, that bloody dimple on his left cheek when he smiles, his distressingly charming personality, completely unwarranted kindness, and expect me not to fall recklessly, hopelessly in love with him. 

I’m so weak for this boy. 

I soften my voice. “Listen, Snow. I know you’re putting all your energy into the party right now. I’m putting all mine to the financials.” I take a breath. I can do this. “I’m sorry I haven’t responded to your emails.” 

Simon perks right back up at my apology. “That’s alright, Baz. I know how stressful end of year is for you. That’s why I emailed, so you could get back to me when you had a free moment.” He glances back towards Mage’s office. “I should have known better than to run you down after a meeting with Mr. Mage.” 

Two years working here and he still calls him Mr. Mage. It’s ludicrous. And that bastard never corrects him. It’s some hierarchy, respect bullshit. It’s not like Snow doesn’t know Mage well enough to call him David. 

He’s Mage’s pet project. Scholarship student out of the care home system and under Mage’s tutelage for years at that small university Mage worked at before he inflicted himself upon us here at Watford. 

Corporations don’t function like universities though and Mage’s management here is a testament to that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d come to Watford to purposely run us into the ground. 

Perhaps he has. I wouldn’t put it past him. 

Snow is still looking at me, likely waiting for a response. Instead I let my mind wander, like I usually do when I am confronted with him. 

I have to, for self-preservation. Being near Snow is like being caught in a tractor beam, like he’s the sun and I’m crashing into him. It’s why I try to avoid him at all costs. He’s too distracting. 

I’m doing it again. 

“So, shall I put you down as a yes, then, Baz?” 

“Yes, fine, whatever.” I’m pathetic. I hate the party. I only go because I know how much work Snow puts into it and because he looks so damn good in a suit.

“And shall I put a plus-one?”

“What?”

“Are you bringing a date?” 

Bollocks. This is why I should have answered his email. To avoid awkward questions like this. To avoid inadvertently saying something monumentally stupid like _“you can be my plus-one, Simon.”_

“Ah, no, no, just me.” 

“Right, then.” Snow beams at me. “I’ll mark you down for one. We’ve still got a spot open at our table. I’ll put you with us.”  His smile grows even wider. “Saturday at seven. At the Club. I’ll see you there, Baz.” 

He nods and then scurries back down the hallway towards Mage’s office. 

Fuck. How am I going to get through an entire evening at the same table as Snow? 

 

**Simon**

I really should know better than to interrupt Baz when he’s in a snit and storming down the hallway from Mage’s office. 

If it weren’t for the fact that he’s always in a snit after a meeting with Mage. 

I know they don’t get on. It’s too bad really. Watford’s a family thing for Baz. But it still must be hard to see someone else in his mother’s place. In her office. Running her company. 

I’m not sure I agree with all of Mage’s policies either. I know he was the dean at the school but I uni isn't like the corporate world. 

Sometimes I wish I didn’t work here, with him. I mean, I know it’s a good job, with solid prospects, a good salary, stable environment. But I’m not using my degree here, am I? 

I double majored in Sociology and Human Resources. I’m actually overqualified to be a personal assistant, but here I am planning Christmas parties and managing Mage’s schedule. 

I owe him. For a lot of things. Getting me out of the care home system. Supporting me for that scholarship to the private secondary school that paved my way to getting into uni. Being my mentor at uni. Hiring me when he got this job. 

It’s quite a lot. I can’t just walk away from this. I like Watford. I like what they do here. I like the values this company has. Or had, I suppose. Things are changing quite a bit under Mage. 

He’s the one who would write a reference for me, if I left. Which is why I don’t dare leave. I’m not sure he wouldn’t consider it a betrayal. He’s funny that way. Very focused on loyalty and allegiance. Everything seems to boil down to _“us and them”_ with him. He and I are the _“us”_ and it seems everyone else is the _“them.”_  

Particularly Baz and his father. The other long-term Watford employees. Half the Board. 

Well, less than half now. A fair number have ‘retired’ and been replaced with people who are friends with Mage. 

I didn’t think that’s how Boards worked. Maybe I’m just naïve. 

I can’t let myself think about all that. I just have to concentrate on doing my job and doing it well. 

I’m glad I caught Baz, even if he was in a mood.

I think he’s always in a mood. Two years I’ve been here and Baz is still an enigma to me. I’ve asked Penny about him. She’s been here longer than I have. She just says he’s brilliant and a tosser and that I should let him be. 

Easier said than done. 

There’s something fascinating about Baz. It’s not just that he’s fit either. 

He’s quite fit. 

But he’s intriguing as a person, not just because of how he looks. He’s young to be the CFO of a corporation the size of Watford. I know he was top of his class at LSE. Brilliant financial mind, could have had any job he wanted but he wanted to work here. With his mother. So, he started in the financial department and worked his way up. 

Penny told me he’d just been promoted to CFO when the accident happened. It was a bad multiple car pileup on the M5. Baz actually passed by it on his way home that night. I can’t imagine how that must have felt. Seeing that car, knowing it was his mother’s. 

I don’t know how he came back to work here, after that. 

But he did. Agatha says he’s much more withdrawn since then. He used to be a bit more social, would occasionally go out to lunch with people, sometimes even to the pub for drinks after work. 

Not now. 

Baz comes in early, goes home late. He’s rarely out of his office unless it’s to lead a department meeting or meet with Mage. I think he even eats in there. 

I’ve tried to get to know him. Hasn’t gone too well. I mean we’ve talked, of course, but not much more than that. Not for lack of trying on my part though. 

I plan the corporate activities—the Christmas party, the summer soiree at the Club, periodic department morale boosters and whatnot. Retirement parties, new employee meet and greets. All sorts of events.

Baz rarely goes to any of them. I mean, he comes to the Christmas party every year and the summer event, but it’s more like he makes an appearance. Shows up, has a drink, shakes some hands with Board members and then buggers off. 

I don’t know why I’m so determined to be friends with him. Penny says I’m obsessed. I disagree. 

I think it’s just that he seems lonely and that bothers me. 

I know how that feels.

 

**Baz**

The only diversion at the Christmas party this year has been Snow. He spent the first hour rushing around, talking to the caterer, having a word with the DJ, sorting some table seating mishap. We were well into the dessert course before he finally sat down. 

In the open seat next to me.

I’d planned to leave after dessert, make my cursory rounds with the Board members and then scuttle out of here before anyone noticed. It’s still my plan, but having Snow seated next to me is definitely putting a wrench in the works. 

I go to such lengths to avoid proximity to him. But having him so near, being able to look at him up close—it’s mesmerizing. 

I practically swoon when his knee inadvertently bumps mine under the table. He’s left-handed so we end up knocking our hands together as he eats his food. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Snow eat before. He does it with a gusto, determination and rapidity that’s breath-taking. I think he ate every remaining roll in the bread basket. And he took my butter. Not that I was planning on eating it but still. I don’t think he’s quite aware of plate assignments at formal table settings. 

Or he just loves butter. 

From the way he slathered it on his roll I’m going to assume it’s the latter. 

He’s also hitting the wine fairly hard. We have a few bottles at our table but Bunce and Wellbelove have only had a glass each. I’ve sipped at mine. I don’t think Rhys drinks and Gareth has a whiskey by him. 

Snow’s on his third glass by the time the DJ starts playing and the dance floor begins to fill. 

I think he’s well on the way to being pissed. He hurried off to hand over a check to the caterer but it appears he took a detour to the bar. Snow’s back and he’s got a drink in each hand.   

“Here.” He hands me one. 

I shake my head. “Sorry, Snow. One glass limit for me tonight. I’m driving.” 

His face falls for a moment but then he shakes his head and beams at me. “More for me then, I suppose.” 

“Simon.” Bunce is seated on his other side. “I don’t think you need two Mojitos.” She commandeers the one intended for me and passes it off to Wellbelove. 

Wellbelove just shrugs and takes it. 

“I think I’m entitled to as many Mojitos as I please.” Snow leans back in his chair and proceeds to down his entire drink. 

“What’s brought this on?” Bunce asks, placing a hand on his shoulder. She darts a concerned look in my direction. 

As if I would have any idea why Snow has decided to drown his sorrows in rum. It’s a tempting idea to follow suit except for the fact that I despise rum. 

And I hate being drunk. Hate the loss of control, the giddiness, the way I find myself saying things that absolutely should not be said. That would be a disaster here, with Snow at my side.

Who knows what nonsense I would start spouting about the blue of his eyes or the light glinting in his bronze curls. I’d never live it down. I’d die of mortification on the spot. 

I’ll stick to one glass of wine and then a lonely drive home to end my night curled up with a good book. 

Of course, that’s not what happens.

What happens is that Snow continues to drink. Profusely. 

Wellbelove offers to take him home when she leaves but he waves her away. Bunce tries to be more forceful with him but he’s having none of her bossiness tonight (Bunce is a force of nature) (I’m secretly relieved I don’t have to interact with her department often). 

“I can’t leave, Penny. Not until everyone else packs it up. I’ve got to pay the DJ and make sure everyone’s got a ride home. It’s my job.” Snow’s explaining this to her, with his hands on her shoulders and an adorably earnest expression on his face. 

“Yes, I know that, Simon. Perhaps that would have been a good reason not to make so many trips to the bar, now wouldn’t it?” 

He laughs. It comes out as a bark, nothing like Snow’s usual laugh. I take a closer look at him. There’s a hint of desperation behind the forced cheerfulness. I hadn’t noticed it before. Something’s bothering Snow, enough to make him behave this way, so out of character for him. 

“It’s alright, Penny. I’ll be fine. It’s not like I don’t know how to handle my liquor. Better than most.” 

“That’s not the point, Simon.” Bunce groans. She looks at her watch again. “I need to go. I’ve got to get to the airport early tomorrow morning.” She tugs at his sleeve.

Bunce’s boyfriend lives in America. I don’t know how they manage this long-distance relationship of theirs but I do know there’s a lot of flying back and forth for holidays. 

I step closer to them and then, even though I’ve just had the one drink, I find myself saying something absolutely rash. “I’ll drive him home, Bunce. You go on.” 

They both turn to look at me, Bunce incredulous and Snow inordinately pleased. “There you go, Penny. Baz’ll get me home. You can count on Baz. That’s what he does all day, he counts things. Count on Baz. Baz’ll take care of me, Pen.” 

Bunce rolls her eyes and then fixes me with a stern look. “Baz, so help me, you better get him home in one piece.” 

I give her a bored look, hopefully masking the ridiculous way my heart is pounding at the thought that I’ll be watching over Snow and at the way he’s gazing at me right now.

Because he is. Gazing at me, I mean. Raptly, intently, fondly. I can’t quite wrap my head around his expression. I want him to look at me like that all the time.  

“Relax, Bunce. I’m quite sure I can handle getting one pleasantly drunk employee home.” I focus on Snow, who is literally beaming at me now. “As long as you remember where you live, Snow, we should be fine.” 

“I’m pleasant now, am I?” Snow’s latched onto that unfortunate word choice of mine. I’m not even soused and I’ve already said too much. I am utterly pathetic. 

Bunce shakes her head but leaves Snow in my tender care. She writes his address on a paper napkin and shoves it in my pocket before she goes, to his disapproval. “I know where I live, Pen. I’m not a complete idiot.” 

She gives him an odd look, her gaze going back and forth between us thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure, Simon. I’m not so sure.” And then she leaves. 

It takes a while to sort everything out. Snow has a check in his pocket for the DJ. He has a conversation with the Club manager about sending the bar bill to the office. He wanders around making sure there aren’t any purses or coats or belongings left behind, and then we finally make our departure. 

He’s tipsy, that’s for certain, but I think Bunce was mistaken as to how drunk he is. Granted, he’s taken in a prodigious amount of liquor, but I think he’s got the right of it—he can handle the alcohol, better than I had assumed.  He’s uninhibited, that’s for certain, but he’s definitely not incoherent. 

I input the address Bunce scribbled onto the napkin in my SatNav as Snow leans back in the passenger seat of my car, a sigh escaping him as he does. 

“You alright, Snow?” 

“Yeah.” 

His eyes are closed. He looks tired. I haven’t put much thought into all he does, to make these parties go off without a hitch. He’s the one doing all the work, behind the scenes, but he certainly doesn’t get any credit for it. 

I feel bad for snarling at him as much as I do. 

“Are you sure?” Why am I still talking? 

“Yeah, it’s just been a bit of rough night.” 

“Why’s that? You pulled it off again. Lovely evening for all.” 

He turns his head to the side and opens his eyes. “You really thought it was lovely?” 

I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight. My voice softens as I answer. “I do. You always do a wonderful job with these events, Snow. It’s a thankless job, I’m sure, but thank you for doing it.” 

Snow’s smile is brilliant. I reluctantly turn my eyes back to the road. “Thanks, Baz. I wish everyone agreed with you.” 

I frown. “I can’t think anyone would find much to criticize.” I give him a wry look. “Other than the DJ insisting on playing The Electric Slide.” I dare another sidelong glance at him. His grin is even wider now. “That needs to be on the no-play list.” 

“Ah, come on, Baz. It got a lot of people on the dance floor.” 

“Not me.” 

“And what would get you on the dance floor? I didn’t see you out there at all tonight.” 

My mouth is dry. I’m not prepared to have this type of conversation with Snow. It’s not intimate but it’s somehow far more personal than any we’ve had previously. 

“I don’t dance.” 

Snow snorts. Literally. “I don’t believe that for a minute.” 

“And why not?” 

I can’t help glancing at him again. He’s laser-focused on me as he answers, an intensity in his gaze that makes my skin tingle.  “You don’t move like someone who can’t dance.” 

I swallow. This is definitely veering into intimate territory. I take a breath and answer him. “I didn’t say I couldn’t. I said I don’t. There’s a difference.” 

“Ah. So what would it take for you to dance?” 

“Nothing that comes to mind.” 

“Hmm.” 

We lapse into silence. We’re almost at Snow’s flat. I’m utterly failing at the witty banter. I’ve got Snow’s undivided attention and I can’t for the life of me come up with anything to say. It’s tragic, really. 

I pull up in front of his building. There’s a spot conveniently open. I manoeuvre the car into the tight space and park. “Alright then, Snow?” 

This smile of his is soft, not the heart-stopping brilliance of before. I think I love this one even more. It’s private, personal, like he’s saved it just for me. That’s a load of rubbish, I know, but I let myself believe it for a moment. 

“Yes, thank you, Baz. Thanks for driving me home.” Snow’s made no move to unbuckle his seatbelt or get out of the car. He’s just contemplating me. Raptly. 

It’s like staring into the sun. I can’t hold his gaze. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, clear my throat and force my eyes away from him. “Alright, then.” Christ, now I’m repeating myself. Will the embarrassments of tonight never end? 

He reaches out a hand and gently touches my forearm. It’s electric. I can feel the heat of it through the fabric of my suit. Then it’s gone and Snow is swiftly unbuckling his belt and making his way out of the car.  He leans into the open door. “See you Monday, Baz.” And then he’s gone, the door thudding closed behind him. He’s not the steadiest on his feet but he’ll do. He just needs to get in the building and up to his flat. 

I stay parked anyway, to be certain he makes it in safely. It’s a good thing I do, because I can see the distress on his face a moment later. He’s patting down his pockets, face rapidly growing more alarmed as his search continues. He stares at the car, expression frantic now. I roll down the window. “What’s the problem?” 

Simon rushes back, stumbling a bit as he does. “Baz. I can’t find my keys. I can’t find them anywhere.” He’s scrabbling in his pockets again—trousers, suit jacket, overcoat. His eyes meet mine. “Fuck. I must have dropped them at the Club.” 

“Is there a spare set anywhere?” 

He shakes his head. “I’ve been meaning to leave a set with Penny but I keep forgetting.” 

Blast it. “Get in. We’ll head back to the Club. The cleaning crew should be there.” 

The cleaning crew is not there. No one is. The Club is locked, dark and deserted. I’m a bit taken aback. You’d think they’d want the place cleaned up before the Sunday brunch crowd. I’m rethinking my whole attitude towards the place. 

But that’s not helping with the Snow situation. “What am I going to do?” He’s got his hands in his hair, furiously pulling at his curls. “I can’t get into my building. I can’t call Penny—she’s got an early flight, I don’t dare wake her up.” 

I make my decision. It’s a stupid, moronic, risky decision, but I’m tired and I’m besotted with this blasted boy and I can’t just leave him to his own devices, now can I? I told Bunce I’d take care of him and I damn well keep my promises. I can’t help the small sigh that escapes me. “You can come home with me, Snow. I’ve got a sofa you can use for the night. I’ll bring you round here in the morning so you can track down your keys.” 

His hands drop to his sides and his red-rimmed eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry to be such a pain in the arse, Baz, really I am.” His brow furrows. “You can drop me off at a hotel or something. I’d hate to inconvenience you. 

I can’t help but frown back. “I am not having you spend the night in a hotel. I’ve got a perfectly serviceable sofa at my place. It’s not an inconvenience. It’s easier this way, truly. I can help you search for your keys tomorrow.” 

His face softens to that fond look again and I’m wrecked. I can’t think when Snow looks at me like that. “Thanks, Baz. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate this. I feel like such a knobhead.” 

I just nod at him. I don’t quite trust my voice at the moment. My heart is beating so rapidly that I swear he can hear it when he gets in the car. 

It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’m fine. Snow’s fine. 

Fuck. I most certainly am not fine. I’m going to have Simon Snow sleeping at my flat. It’s a fucking dream come true but not in the way I’d fantasized. 

I’m simply helping him out. It’s just for one night. This means nothing.  

It means everything. 

Christ, what am I even thinking? It can’t mean anything. Honestly, even if Snow were interested, which he’s certainly not, it’s against company policy. No fraternizing. No inter-office romances. Strictly off-limits, especially for one of the chief officers to potentially be involved with a subordinate. 

It’s theoretically both an HR and Compliance violation, even if it’s not spelled out explicitly in the handbook. 

It’s one of the reasons I’ve kept my distance from him. Not given in to the temptation to test the waters, see if he’s even remotely interested. Because it’s doomed from the start. I can’t date Snow. Not as long as he’s employed at Watford. 

Snow’s still babbling rambling apologies to me. I let him. I’m too tired to argue and too overwhelmed to speak at the moment. 

He falls silent by the time we pull into the parking garage at my building. He’s still a bit wobbly but not enough that I have to steady him, thank God. I don’t know what I’d do if I had him leaning into me right now. 

I find out the answer to that question moments later as I fumble with my keys. My hands are shaking and it takes me a few tries to fit the key in the lock. Just enough time for Snow to slump against the wall and slide down to a seated position. 

“No, Snow, what? Not here. We’re almost inside. Come on, now, get up.” He’s got his eyes closed. 

“It’s spinning a bit, Baz.” The words are just a whisper.

“Bloody hell. You were fine just a minute ago. How much did you have to drink?”

He shakes his head and then stops with a moan, both hands going up to grip his temples. My eyes dart around the landing.  I need to get this idiot inside. 

“I had a shot of whiskey when I went to get my coat, just before we left.” 

“Snow, you are an absolute moron. What the hell has gotten into you tonight?” 

“Mage.” It’s even quieter than before but I hear it.  It sears my heart. What did Mage do, to have Simon behave so out of character tonight? 

It’s not something I’m going to delve into out here. Somehow, I’ve got to get him into my flat. I should be able to pry it out of him while I fetch him some water and paracetamol. He’ll definitely need both. 

And pyjamas.

Blast it. I do not need the mental image of Snow wearing my pyjamas at this particular moment. 

I shove the door open, drop my keys in my pocket and reach out a hand towards him. “Up, Snow.” He opens his eyes and stares at my hand. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. We can talk about whatever’s bothering you then, alright?” I’m using my gentlest voice, the coaxing one I used to use on my siblings when I’d try to get them to go to bed.

Snow reaches up and grips my hand and I haul him to his feet. He stumbles a bit and leans into me hard. I’m not expecting it and my arm involuntarily slides around his waist to steady him. We stagger into my flat, Snow a near dead weight in my arms. I manoeuvre him to the sofa where he’ll spend the night and he drops down heavily onto the cushions. The momentum drags me down as well. 

Snow slumps against the back of the sofa and I leap to my feet. “I’ll just be a moment.” I take my overcoat off and toss it on a chair before hurrying to the kitchen to fetch Snow some water. It takes me a few moments to hunt down the paracetamol. I rarely use it so I check the bottle to make sure it’s not expired. Thankfully, it’s not. I tuck the bottle in my pocket and head to my room for a pair of pyjamas. 

I return to find Snow, head lolling back on the sofa, snoring gently. He’s ridiculous and entrancing and the line of his neck is utterly enthralling.  I can’t take my eyes off him.  I shake my head in irritation and raise my voice. “Snow. Wake up. You can’t sleep in your suit.” 

His head bobs up and his eyes widen. It takes a moment for him to focus on me but when he does a smile lights up his face. “Baz.” 

“Present and accounted, Snow. Now, sit up, that’s right. Time for some water or you’ll feel like absolute shite in the morning.”  
  
“Think I’m going to feel like that no matter what.”

“You’ll feel worse if you don’t do as I say. Now, come on, drink the water and then I need you to take some paracetamol for your head. It’s going to be pounding soon enough, I’m sure.”

Snow obediently takes the paracetamol and drinks most of the water. I scamper off to the kitchen to bring him another glass. He’s managed to stay awake this time. He blinks up at me. “Thanks, Bazy.”

That’s not going to do at all. I’m absolutely not going to tolerate nicknames from this intoxicated tit.

“You do not get to call me that, Snow. Under no circumstances do I answer to nicknames.” 

“Baz’s a nickname.” It comes out as a mumble. 

I roll my eyes. “That’s my name, Snow. It’s not a nickname. It’s what everyone calls me.” 

“Not your father. Not Mage. Call you Basilton, they do.” 

“I am not going to engage in a debate about my name while you are inebriated. It’s one o’clock in the morning. Give it a rest.” 

“Alright, Bazy.”

“Snow.” My voice has an edge to it. I don’t care how adorable he’s being at the moment. I simply cannot allow this.

“Hmm. How’s this then. I’ll stop the Bazy bit if you stop calling me Snow. M’ok?”

“What?” 

“M’name’s Simon.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“Rather you call me that, than Snow.” 

I sigh. “Fine, then. Simon. Are you happy now?” 

He grins in response and then proceeds to slump further down. This won’t do at all. He’s still in his suit.

“Might need the loo.” 

Of course, he needs to use the loo. I position myself in front of him and hoist him up. We lurch our way to the bathroom down the hall. I go in search of a spare pillow and blanket while Snow—er, Simon—uses the facilities. There’s some thumping and bumping, which is likely his attempt at getting out of his clothes and into the pyjamas I left with him. I can feel my face heat up. I’m going to leave him in his suit if he hasn’t managed to change out of it himself. There are some lines that simply can’t be crossed.

Simon’s somehow managed to get out of his suit and into my pyjamas and I can’t say that the sight of him in them doesn’t make my head spin. His clothing is scattered on the floor and over the side of the bathtub. I tut at him and gather it all up, hanging it in the hall closet once I get him situated on the sofa again. 

“You need to drink more water, Simon.” 

“I will if you sit with me a bit.” 

I sit at the far end of the sofa, perched on the edge. Simon tilts his head in my direction, eyes heavy-lidded. “Thanks, Baz.” 

“Drink your water.” He takes a few sips and then closes his eyes again. “What’s going on tonight, Simon? I’ve never seen you like this.” 

He opens his eyes and regards me thoughtfully. “How would you know? You don’t really spend much time in my company do you, Baz?” 

He’s right. I don’t. I observe him from a distance, taking note of every nuance of him, every facial expression, every burst of laughter. I’ve collected scraps of information about him from office gossip and the interactions we’ve had. I know him better than he thinks. 

I’ve been to most of the corporate events since he started working here and I’ve never seen him behave in an inappropriate fashion. It’s not that he’s been behaving poorly tonight. It’s just so unlike him. “I know you take pride in what you do and you are usually impeccable in your behaviour. Tonight’s a bit of a departure from that, wouldn’t you say?” 

He sighs.

“Simon. What’s going on?” 

“I got into a bit of a scrap with Mage.” 

“When?” 

“At the party.” 

I think back on the night. I don’t recall seeing Simon with Mage but I didn’t have eyes on him the whole time. He was running around quite a bit all evening. 

“What about?” 

“Quite a few things. The party mostly.” Simon exhales again and his expression becomes grave. “No one gave me any new parameters for the cost. I followed last year’s budget. Mage had approved it a few months ago.” 

A chill goes through me. I’d just gone over the projected year-end numbers with Mage Friday. They weren’t good. He’s been vastly overspending with marketing and Board-focused events. Retreats. Strategic planning sessions. Consultants. Corporate mumbo-jumbo as far as I’m concerned. Colossally wasteful. It’s done nothing for our bottom line. Made it worse, if anything. 

Our customers rely on our thoroughness and reliability. Mage has cut a swathe through the staff in the last two years, alienating long-term employees and hiring toadies who curry his favor. The loss of Possibelf six months ago and Minos a few weeks after decimated those departments. Mage hired Bunce’s brother, but Premal is new to the business and far too arrogant to ask for help. The managers under him have been floundering for months, despite my clandestine assistance. 

Assistance Mage has sharply reprimanded me for more than once. 

He was incensed on Friday, with the numbers I had shown him. Accurate, up to date, precise numbers. He’d threatened another round of layoffs, which will only weaken us further. That’s why I was in such a foul mood when Simon caught me. 

It seems Simon’s borne the brunt of Mage’s rage as well. “What did he say?” My tone is far gentler than it typically is with him. 

“He was furious about the menu. The open bar. The holiday prizes we give out every year.” 

That was my mother’s tradition. A series of gifts for random employees. She’d draw the names out of a top hat and the winners would march off with an iPad or a new watch. A television or a swanky SatNav. There were always one or two splashy items while the rest were more moderate. It was a unique way to boost employee morale and add a tinge of excitement to the party. Something a bit more personal than the yearly holiday bonus check.

Simon was still speaking. “Said we couldn’t afford it. Said I’d overstepped my bounds by not clearing it with him.” His face clouds over. “But I did clear it with him, Baz. I cleared it with him months ago, when I booked the Club. When I purchased the items. How was I to know the funds were more precarious now?” 

There was no way for Simon to know. Not if Mage hadn’t told him. He is a direct report to Mage, no one else. It isn’t my place to peruse the budgets with the CEO’s assistant. Another example of how unfit this man is to run the company.  

Simon leans forward, his head buried in his hands. “Christ, I feel like such a fucking idiot. I never intended to make things worse.” 

I’m not sure how I end up with my hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. You did what you’re supposed to do. It’s his job to keep up with the finances. It’s his job to communicate if he needs plans to change.” My hand makes its way across his back and then he’s leaning against me, his head on my shoulder. 

I can smell the clean, fresh scent of his hair. His curls are tickling my neck. He’s pressed up against me and I can’t pull away. I’m riveted to the spot.  

I find myself crooning soothing phrases into his hair. It isn’t Simon’s fault and it’s complete bollocks that Mage has made him feel responsible and guilty. No wonder he was hitting the drinks hard tonight. 

If I know anything about Snow it’s that he’s frugal to a fault. He grew up in the care system, had nothing of his own. The scholarship may have rescued him from that environment but he’s never lost his sense of caution about expenses. It’s a well-known office fact. I don’t need to know him well to know this about him. 

It’s obvious from where he lives. How he eats. I think he’s the only other employee who brings food from home almost exclusively. I do it because I’m anti-social and I don’t really like eating in front of others much. He does it to conserve his finances. 

I keep murmuring comforting words to him. It’s basically a litany of _“it’s alright, you did nothing wrong”_ repeated over and over at this point. I’m not quite sure what else to do. I really should get up and get him settled for the night.

But I don’t want to. I know it’s wrong to relish the sensation of him near me but it’s been far too long since I’ve had human contact like this. I know I’m supposed to be comforting him but this is consoling me as well.

I may never have another chance to hold him in my arms like this.

I don’t know how much time passes. I’ve stopped speaking now, I’m just holding him. He stirs and lifts his head. He’s so close. Our eyes lock and I’m lost in the blue of his gaze.

“Thank you, Baz.” It’s a whisper but the feel of his breath ghosting against my lips makes me shiver. His hand comes up to cup my face and his head tilts up. 

And then _he kisses me_. Simon Snow is kissing me and it’s simultaneously the best thing and the worst thing in the world. 

The best because it’s _Simon Snow_ kissing me and I’ve desperately wanted this for so long. I’ve never been kissed quite like this. He’s doing this thing with his jaw and it’s overwhelming me. It’s soft, passionate, so devastatingly sensual that my lips part of their own volition and I lose myself in the taste of him.

It’s the worst because I can’t let him keep doing it. He’s not himself. He’s had too much to drink. He doesn’t mean this. He’s not thinking clearly.  
  
I pull away, every nerve in my body alight with the sense of him. I’m literally dragging my lips from his as the regret pools in my stomach, weighing me down.

“I’m sorry, Simon. That was uncalled for. I apologize.” 

He blinks at me, face flushed. “What’re you apologizing for? I kissed you.”

 “I know that. But you’re not yourself. I shouldn’t have let you do that.” 

Simon frowns at me. “But I wanted to.” 

I’m not prepared for this. I feel exposed, raw, vulnerable. It’s all I’ve wanted and the reality that I can’t let myself have this is devastating. 

“You may think that now, Simon, but you likely won’t feel the same way tomorrow.” I shift away slightly and then stand up. I can’t help but reach out one more time, to rest my hand on his shoulder. I can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. It’s an effort to step back but I have to do it. 

I yank the pillow and blanket from the armchair nearby and make a show of fluffing the pillow and settling it in place for him. I give him a gentle push and he slides down until he’s curled up on his side. He looks so young, so trusting. My hand creeps forward of its own volition to sweep the curls off his forehead, my fingers lingering in his hair for a moment. I settle the blanket over him and decisively step away.

Simon’s eyes follow me as I move towards the hallway leading to my room. “Good night, Simon.” 

I close my eyes for a brief second and then switch the light off. I see him shift a bit in the dimness,hear his whispered “ _goodnight, Baz”_ and then I turn away to find the lonely comfort of my room. 

It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

 

**Simon**

Baz may think I’m going to forget this or regret it in the morning. He couldn’t be more wrong. The only thing I might regret is the hangover I’m sure to have tomorrow, but I don’t expect I’m going to feel much remorse about that.  

I doubt I’d have had the courage to kiss Baz just now, if I hadn’t had a few drinks in me.

I probably wouldn’t have had the nerve at all, if Mage hadn’t aggravated me to the point of throwing all caution to the wind and indulging in more liquor than I’ve had since uni. Can’t be helped.

It did serve to clarify things for me. 

I like Baz. More than like him.

I can’t delude myself that the feelings I have for him are just casual interest or fascination. The truth is I’ve had a crush on Baz for quite some time now. 

I’d resigned myself to it being a one-sided attraction but I’m not sure that’s true, if the way he responded to my kissing him is any indication.

I liked that too.

I pull the blanket up to my chin. It smells like Baz; cedar and bergamot.

I breathe the scent in and let my eyes drift closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the extended delay in posting this. Real life has been pretty bloody awful lately. I picked up this chapter again last night, when I was in need of a distraction and a pick me up. Got the edits done this morning and so here it is.

 

 

**Chapter 2**

 

**Baz**  

I’m up with the sun which is unusual for me. Not that I slept that well in the first place. Having the boy I love in such close proximity is like sharing a room with an open fire. His presence is drawing me in, pulling me closer, but I know it can only end with one or both of us getting burned. 

I’m upper management. Simon’s the CEO’s personal assistant. This is not a minor level breach of superior/subordinate hierarchy. It’s egregious enough that it could imperil his position with the company. He knows this. Better than anyone, with his HR background. 

I know this. It wouldn’t be my job on the line. I’d never forgive myself if I cost him his. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve forced myself to keep a distance, why I’ve kept my walls up with him. 

Until last night. 

I shouldn’t have kissed him back. 

I wanted to kiss him back. 

I still do. 

 

**Simon**

I wake up to sunlight streaming in from the window and a pounding headache. The light’s too bright. The noise from the kitchen is too loud. The blanket’s too hot. 

I throw it off me and groan as the shift in position makes my head throb in time with my heartbeat. I manage to drag myself to a seated position which does nothing to improve my symptoms. 

I spot the bottle of paracetamol and rapidly down two capsules with the lukewarm water in the glass I find near me. 

My mouth feels like sandpaper: rough, gritty, dry. I scrub my hands over my face and groan again.

“You’re finally awake then?” 

I turn too quickly and have to close my eyes as the headache intensifies. I open them again to the sight of Baz, leaning against the kitchen doorway, one eyebrow arched in that oh-so-familiar way. 

“What time is it?” 

“Half past eleven.” He shakes his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you snore, Snow? Might want to get that checked out sometime.” 

“It’s my sinuses, and it’s Simon. I told you that last night, Bazy.” I fix him with as intense a glare as I can muster under the circumstances. 

The color drains from his face and I catch a flicker of something flash across his features before his mask slams back down. Hope? Apprehension? I’m not sure what it was but it’s not an expression I’ve seen from him before. 

He assumed I’d forgotten about last night. Well, I’ve laid that presumption to rest now, haven’t I? 

Baz clears his throat. “I’ve got breakfast ready, if you’re hungry.” He swallows. “Simon.” 

“Ah, thanks. I’m desperate for a wash up first, if you don’t mind.” 

He’s a flurry of activity—finding me towels, a spare toothbrush, toothpaste. Anything to avoid looking me in the eye it seems. 

I’m scrubbing my face at the sink when he knocks on the bathroom door. “Thought you’d rather wear something other than your suit.” Baz is intently focused on something over my left shoulder as he hands me a pair of joggers and a hoodie. 

I didn’t know Baz owned joggers and a hoodie. He’s always dressed to the nines, even at the more casual company events.  
  
He’s gone as soon as I take the clothing from him. I look longingly at the shower but decide that’s taking things one step too far. I do the rest of my washing up and then slip into the clothes he’s left me. 

The joggers are a bit too long, so I roll the waistband over. Baz’s hoodie fits just right. Smells like him too. 

I find him in the kitchen and gratefully sink into a chair with the hot mug of tea he hands me clasped between my palms. “Baz, this is perfect.” 

It is. There’s bacon and eggs, toast, marmalade, a huge slab of butter. I’m ravenous. 

Baz sits across from me but just picks at his food. “Thanks for breakfast.” It comes out a bit mumbly as I’m still chewing my toast.

Baz just shakes his head. “You’re an absolute numpty, Simon.” 

I shrug and smile, which only makes him flare his nostrils. Fuck. I’ve probably got something in my teeth.

I don’t start to feel human again until my second cup of tea. It’s past noon by then. The Club’s going to be awash with the Sunday brunch crowd but I’ve got to find my keys. My building supervisor’s not the most pleasant of blokes. Dragging him out on a Sunday to pick my lock and find me a spare key is definitely not going to endear me to him. I’m sure I’ll get charged for it too.

I really don’t want to think about that right now. What I want to think about is the way Baz sits, chin resting on his hand as he reads the morning paper across the table from me. The way the sun glints on his dark hair. It’s not slicked back today. It looks good like this, all loose waves framing his face. It makes him look softer, younger. 

Which is probably why he never wears it that way at work. He’s got a reputation to maintain, Baz does. Cool, efficient, calculating, and controlled. Just as he should be, as CFO. 

I like this side of him. Not that I don’t like the other Baz too. I like Baz every way I can get him. 

And that’s the real reason I’m in no rush to get to the Club. We need to talk. I’m not going to let him pretend nothing happened last night. Something did. Something meaningful. 

_Baz kissed me back_. There was no hesitation, no reluctance. His mouth moved on mine, his lips parted for me, his fingers tangled in my hair. I could feel his heart pounding under the hand I placed on his chest.

I remember every second of it. It’s etched in my memory and he can’t deny it. I won’t let him.

Baz puts the paper down and meets my eyes. “You’ve had enough to eat then? Shall we get to the Club and look for those missing keys of yours?” 

“Yeah, thanks. The food was just right.”

It takes a few moments to tidy up the kitchen. It feels so domestic, me clearing the table and Baz rinsing the dishes in the sink before putting them in the washer. I like that too. 

I like it enough that when he bends over to put the last dish in place I move to stand behind him. I slide my arms around his waist as he straightens up and rest my head against his shoulder. 

Baz instantly stiffens, muscles rigid to the touch. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting but I know I was hoping for something more than this. I sigh into his neck and I feel a shiver run through him. I’ll just say my bit now, while my face is hidden. “Baz. Thanks for everything last night. For dealing with my sozzled self, for staying ‘til the bitter end with me, for taking me in for the night, for breakfast this morning.” I tighten my arms around him for just a second. “For this,” I breathe, as I press a soft kiss to his shoulder. 

Baz tenses for an instant and then I feel his fingertips graze my forearms, feather light. He exhales and then he’s leaning back into me and it feels so right. I nuzzle into the side of his neck and his head drops back, the tension easing from his frame.

He shifts in my arms so he’s facing me, grey eyes so close I can see the flecks of green and blue I never knew were there. “What are we doing, Simon?” His voice is a whisper. “What is this?” 

“It’s whatever we want it to be.”

Baz’s gaze narrows. “You know it can’t be. You, of all people, know this can’t happen.” 

“Why? Because of work, you mean?”

“Because of a thousand things.” His eyebrows come together and the grey of his eyes darkens as he pulls back, widening the space between us. “Because of me, because of you, because of Mage and work and Watford and compliance.” He looks pained. “We can’t do this. Whatever _this_ is.” 

“This is me liking you, Baz. This is me wanting to get to know you.” I move closer. “This is me wanting to kiss you again.” 

So I do.

He melts into me, his mouth moving over mine, his hands pulling me closer, his body pressed against me.

 

**Baz**

I’m kissing Simon in my kitchen. I’ve fallen into an alternate dimension where kissing Simon Snow is my reality.

We shouldn’t be doing this. There’s a very distinct voice in my head that’s listing all the reasons this is a terrible idea: that it’s ethically unsound, that it violates company policy, that it compromises both of our positions at Watford. I’m ignoring that voice and focusing on the sensation of Simon’s body pressed against me, on the firm pressure of his lips on mine, the slide of his tongue. 

Christ, I want this so much. I’ve wanted it since the day I met him. 

But the world we live in won’t let me have this. That inner voice grows more strident, the litany of warnings repeating themselves in my head.

This has the potential to stain his work record for the rest of his life. 

I can’t let that happen. 

I won’t let that happen.

 

  
**Simon**

Baz tears his lips away from me and steps back again, far more decisively this time. He puts his hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me away. His hands stay there, fingers digging into me.

“Simon. Stop.” His head drops down and he takes a breath. “This is a mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake. I like you. I think you like me. Sounds fairly straightforward.” 

He gives me a sharp look. “It’s not that simple.” 

“It is. When you bring it down to the basics it’s that simple. Work’s just an inconvenience.” 

Baz moves further away, hands dropping to his sides. “You can’t be serious. You, with your HR degree, seriously expect me to believe you think the fact that we work together _,_ that I am your superior in that work environment, is of no consequence? It’s a conflict of interest. For both of us.” 

“I didn’t say it’s of no consequence. I said it’s an inconvenience.” 

Baz crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s more than an inconvenience. It’s morally ambiguous at best, downright taboo at its worst.”

I roll my eyes. “I know how this works, Baz.” I take a step in his direction. He takes a step back. “No one has to know. If work is the barrier for us then we make accommodations.” I step closer. “No one has to know. This is you and me and whatever this is that’s happening with us.”

I have a degree in HR. I know what the rules are. And I know every corporation breaks any number of rules every single day. This particular rule is one that’s bypassed more often than not.  That’s the reality of the world, as opposed to the theory that lives in textbooks and handbooks and compliance documents. Theory isn’t flesh and blood.

I am. And so is Baz.

But I’ll let it go, for now. I don’t want to upset him. I don’t want to endanger this fragile connection that’s developed between us.

I step back. “I’m not going to push you, Baz. It’s shades of grey, I know.”

Baz nods. “It’s best we just forget this happened, Simon. We got caught up on a whim. The light of day clarifies many things.” He moves to the kitchen door. “Get your things. I’ll drive you to the Club.” 

It’s silent and awkward and I feel like a monumental idiot by the time we get there.

There are small mercies though. My keys have been found. They’re waiting for me at the front desk so there will be no need for embarrassing searches amongst the greenery or under the tables. 

Baz offers to drive me to my flat. I insist I can take the Tube but he won’t hear of it. “I told Bunce I’d get you home. I’m a man of my word. I fully intend on seeing you get there in one piece.” 

He drives away from my building without looking back and that hurts far more than it should.

 

 

**Baz**

It’s the hardest decisions that hurt the most. I know I’m doing the right thing. For Simon. 

I’m not so sure about for myself, but that’s not the point. He has far more to lose than I do and that is exactly why it would be a colossal mistake to even contemplate something of this nature.

It’s done. It’s over before it’s even started and that’s for the best.

I told myself that as I drove away from him that morning and I’ve practically made it my daily fucking mantra since then. 

I can’t stop myself thinking about Simon though. It’s so fucking hard, having to see him every day. To know the weight of his hand on my chest. To know the taste of his lips. The feel of his skin against my fingertips.

It was easier when I could just live off my fantasies. The reality was far better than I ever could have dreamed. 

I still do dream. I still fantasize. I still wank away to visions of him when I’m in the shower. 

Every interaction I have with him is so bloody awkward now. I find myself staring at Simon during meetings, worse than before. My face heats up every time he drops by my office to inflict some new packet of paperwork from Mage on me.

Every time his glance lingers on my face. Every time I walk by him in the halls, catch the scent of him in the lift, brush by him on my way out of the conference room.  
  
It’s like he’s everywhere now. Or more likely my awareness of him is heightened since he kissed me. As if he somehow has become a homing beacon and I suffer his siren call day in, day out. 

Thank the stars it’s end of year. My department is scrambling to get the final accounting done and close out the books.That’s the only thing keeping me from going completely mad. 

It’s the only thing that keeps my mind off Simon. 

It’s been a little over a week since the Christmas party and I’ve been doing my damndest to avoid him. Staying at work late has always been one of my intermittent vices but it’s become a routine this past week. End of year is always a fucking nightmare. We’ve only a few days to go before the New Year holiday.

Staying late also limits the chance I’ll be forced to share a lift with Simon.

But Simon’s not the only reason I do it.

There’s something concerning about the numbers but I can’t for the life of me parse it out. I’ve checked and rechecked and the balance sheets all add up. I still can’t help but feel I’m missing something vital. I run the profit and loss statement one more time, cross reference it with the balance sheet, pore over the departmental expense tallies. 

None of it looks good. There’s nothing sinister about the numbers, it’s just that our expenses continue to rise and profits are most definitely lagging. Never a good combination but it’s worse than this time last year. The two departments that were combined and are now under Premal’s direction are the standout loss-leaders. 

He’s young and new but that’s hardly an excuse. Mage had him take over Possibelf and Minos’ departments, combined them into one gargantuan undertaking.  There should have been efficiencies seen from that merger. Two department head salaries—with hefty benefits due to their seniority—were eliminated and streamlined to one. I know for a fact other employees were let go in the name of eradicating redundancies. If anything, that line should show a profit, not a loss. 

I can’t figure it out. I’ve been looking at these numbers for the past two hours and my head is swimming. My stomach rumbles. I’ve not eaten since breakfast. I glance at the time. 

It’s half past eight. 

I should go home. Grab a kebab from the shop on the corner and call it a night.

The smell of curry hits me then, almost as if my subconscious manufactured it from my thoughts. It’s not my imagination though.

There’s a light knock on my open door and Simon Snow is silhouetted in the doorway, a bag of take-away in his hands. “Hey, Baz. Another late night for you?”

I swallow thickly then clear my throat. “Ah, yes, end of year, you know. Last chance to make sure I’ve got it right.” 

He leans against the doorframe. There is an errant curl drooping over his forehead that I want to sweep back. I long to feel those thick, springy locks of hair under my fingertips again. This won’t do at all. I exhale a sigh. “Can I help you?”

Simon shakes his head. He lifts the bag in his hands, wafting the scent in my direction. “I thought you might like a snack, yeah?” 

This boy will be the death of me. I can’t very well send him away when he’s gone to the trouble of bringing me dinner.

“Thank you, Simon. You didn’t need to do that.”

Simon takes two steps into my office. “I know I didn’t need to. I wanted to do it.” His brow creases. “You’ve been here late every night this week, Baz.”

I try to tamp down the flash of pleasure that comes over me at the fact that he’s taken note of it.

Simon jiggles the bag again. “You want to eat in here or shall I put it in the kitchen for you?” 

“You can leave it here. I’ve not got any qualms about eating at my desk.”  
  
His smile is achingly fond. “I’ve noticed.” 

I peer into the bag and am overjoyed to see he’s brought me a chicken tikka _and_ samosas. It’s what I’d have ordered for myself. He’s still hovering on the other side of my desk.

I make a rash decision again, against my better judgement. “I can’t eat all this.” I look up at him. “Have you had dinner yet, Simon?”

He shrugs.  “I had a bit of the buffet while I was waiting for them to wrap up your meal.”

I wave at the chair across from me. “Sit. You can have some of my samosas. I certainly can’t eat four of them on my own.”

That’s how I find myself eating dinner with Simon Snow. It’s somehow easier to talk to him while sharing food, with the solid bulk of my desk between us.

Simon tells me how Bunce is doing in Chicago, where she’s gone to visit her boyfriend for the holiday. I tell him about Christmas with my family, the chaotic riot that ensued as my siblings decimated the perfectly wrapped bundles under the tree. 

“My stepmother caved this year and bought the scoundrels a Nintendo Switch. She’s going to live to regret that purchase, mark my words.” 

Simon launches into a dizzying monologue on his favorite video games. I’m gaping at him. He gives me a puzzled look. “What? Do you not play?” 

I shake my head. “Not really. I mean, I helped Daphne set it up for the children at Christmas. My father’s quite hopeless at such things. I played a few rounds of some inane racing game with them.”  
  
“Mario Kart?” He leans forward eagerly.

“Yes, that.” I shake my head at him. “You aren’t telling me you play that yourself?”

Simon nods eagerly. “Oh, yeah. One of my mates at uni had a Switch and we’d have weekend Mario Kart tournaments.” He huffs a laugh. “You can’t tell me you’ve never played before this week?”

“I told you just that a minute ago.” 

“Baz! That’s absolutely criminal. I grew up in a care home and I’ve played more video games than you. It’s quite ludicrous, really.”

“I don’t see the point. If I’ve got time on my hands I’d much rather read a book.”

He’s smirking now, the ridiculous muppet. “Challenge accepted.”

“What?”

“You said you don’t see the point. I’ve got a Nintendo at my place. Come by sometime over the holiday and I’ll convert you.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious. You’re not going to let your seven-year-old brother best you at Mario Kart, now are you?”

He’s right. Of course I’m not.

But the thought of going to Simon’s flat to play Nintendo is ringing all sorts of alarm bells. I can’t do that. I can’t risk spending time with him in a platonic fashion. 

I mean, I am spending time with him in a strictly platonic fashion at this very moment but I’m not at his flat, now am I? I might have been able to do it, a month ago, a week ago, any time before I experienced the sensation of his body in my arms and his lips on mine. 

No. I can’t risk that proximity now.

 We finish the meal Simon brought and I decide I can’t spend one more minute at the office tonight. I gather up the detritus of the take-away. “How much do I owe you for this, Simon?” 

There’s that hurt expression on his face again. “You don’t owe me, Baz. I wanted to get it for you. I told you that.”

I know how he is about money but the look on his face cuts off any further arguments I may have about the issue. “Well, at least let me drive you home. It’s late and I’m headed out now myself.”

I hope to heaven he never realizes what kind of effect his smile has on me. I’ll be ruined if he ever figures it out.

“Thanks, Baz. That’d be great. Not relishing the walk to the station in the snow.”

“Is it snowing?” 

“Has been for a few hours.”

He’s right. When we pull out of the Watford parking garage London is blanketed with snow, flakes still swirling down around us. It’s beautiful.

Almost as lovely as the sight of Simon taking it all in.

“I thought you were just complaining about the snow.” 

He grins at me. “It’s one thing to slip and slide on the sidewalks walking in it, another to just get to see how pretty it all is.” 

Miraculously there is an open spot in front of his building again. I’m beginning to wonder if fate is conspiring against me. I arch an eyebrow at him. “Got your keys, Simon?” 

“Aye, they’re in my pocket.” He pulls them out and jingles them for me. 

“Alright then, have a good night.”

He reaches out and puts a hand on my forearm, just as he had last week. His touch sears me as powerfully as it did the first time. “Baz. Come up for a bit, would you?”

I can’t. I can’t do this. 

His fingers stay on my arm. “Just for a minute. I’ve got your things and I’ve felt awkward bringing them to the office for you.” 

“My things?” I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.

“Your joggers and hoodie. The ones you let me borrow after the party. I’ve laundered them and all but I didn’t want to bring them to you at work.” His brow creases. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me dropping them off at your place either.”

 He looks unhappy. Thanks to me. I’ve made him feel awkward about the simple act of returning my borrowed clothes.

 I am being a complete arse. Surely, I can manage to go upstairs to retrieve my items. People socialize outside of office settings all the time. They borrow and return things. There’s nothing inappropriate about that. 

Or I could just let him keep them. Not tempt fate by going upstairs. Yes, that’s a perfect solution. I don’t need them. I’ve got more at home.

I like the idea of him wearing my clothes.

It’s an absolutely cowardly, stupid idea and I have the sense to realize that before I start babbling nonsense at him. 

“Oh. Right then.” I shut the car off and follow him to the building entrance, both of us slipping a bit on the heavy, wet snow. It takes Simon a minute to unlock the entryway door and I spend that moment drinking in the sight of him. His curls gleam in the light of the streetlamp. There are snowflakes in his hair and on his stubby eyelashes. He tosses his head with a laugh to shake them off and I can’t remember how to breathe.

_Keep it together, Pitch._ I’m a fucking tragedy, that’s what I am. I can’t even do this properly. 

Somehow, we make it up to his flat, awkwardly sharing the lift. Well, I’m awkward, making inane conversation about the weather like an absolute tit.

It’s a small flat. Simple furniture. A few hangings on the walls, just a couple of posters up. 

“Liverpool, Simon, really?”

“Spent most of my years in a care home there. Hard to resist being a fan. ‘ _You’ll never walk alone_ ’ has a bit of a nice ring to it when you’re a lonely eleven-year-old.”

My heart thumps in my chest. The lyrics float through my head as Simon heads to his bedroom to retrieve my things.

 

_When you walk through a storm_  
_Hold your head up high_  
_And don't be afraid of the dark_

_At the end of a storm_  
_There's a golden sky_  
_And the sweet silver song of a lark_

_Walk on through the wind_  
_Walk on through the rain_  
_Though your dreams be tossed and blown_

_Walk on, walk on_  
_With hope in your heart_  
_And you'll never walk alone_

_You'll never walk alone_

 

Fuck. It hurts to think of this boy, alone and unloved, in a care home. Latching onto a football club, something stable and solid and consistent. Listening to the words of that song and taking heart from them.

It comes to me suddenly that maybe Simon’s a bit lonely. I know he has Bunce and Wellbelove and the rest of the office staff he seems to be so friendly with but there’s something to it I think, something that sets him apart. 

Mage.

That’s what sets him apart. He’s the boss’s man, so even among the friendlies he’s a bit suspect likely. Not to Bunce, I’m sure. She latched onto him from the beginning, showing him the ropes, scolding him like a mother hen, watching out for him. A real friend.  

But as for the others, I’m not sure their motives are so altruistic. I’d not put it past people to chummy up to him simply in an attempt to curry favor with Mage.

Simon’s back with my joggers and hoodie. “Thanks again, Baz.” He eyes the Liverpool poster and smirks. “I’m going to guess you’re an Arsenal fan?”

“And you’d be wrong.”

“What?” He looks incredulous.

I smirk right back. “Chelsea.” 

He rolls his eyes at me. “Of course you are, you posh git. I should have known.” 

It’s said fondly.

Simon’s just lonely. He was lonely, hurt and drunk that night at the party. It shouldn’t be surprising that he craved some human contact. Not sure why he didn’t take the easy road and pretend he’d forgotten about kissing me, but Simon’s a bit of a straight arrow, not one to shy away from the truth.

Well, not so straight, obviously, but he’s still painfully unsubtle. He’s the kind to own up to anything out of a sense of honour. 

Which is yet another reason the idea of a relationship with him is completely out of the question. I can’t imagine Simon being clandestine. 

I realize we’re silently staring at each other. He’s still got my things in his hands. I reach out to take my clothing from him and our fingers brush. It’s electric. I step back, clutching the items to my chest. “I should go.” 

Simon reaches up and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He does it when he’s nervous or agitated. It’s completely absurd that I know that, but I do. I’ve seen him do it before.

“Um, Baz. If you’ve not got other plans this weekend the offer to come over and play Nintendo is open. I mean it. I’ll be around.” His eyes dart up to meet mine, letting me catch a glimpse of the blue of them.

“Ah. . . thank you, Simon, ah . . .” I sound an absolute tit.

His face falls. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sure you’ve got plans for New Year’s.” 

I don’t. New Year’s Eve parties depress me. I’m usually wrung out from closing the company’s financial ledgers for the year. Being around crowds of insufferable couples gleefully toasting each other and getting themselves abominably drunk on champagne is the last thing I want to do. I can’t get all that excited about ringing in a new year anyway. I doubt the upcoming one will be appreciably different from this past one.

_He’s lonely,_ I remind myself. 

I’m lonely. I’ve not let myself admit it but I feel it, that bottomless abyss aching in my chest.

“I . . . I don’t actually. Have plans, I mean.” What am I doing? I’m stuttering my way through agreeing to meet up with him, is what I’m doing. 

Simon’s head comes up, his extraordinary blue eyes fixed on mine. “Really?” 

“Really. What were you thinking exactly?” 

His face lights up and then he’s talking a mile a minute at me. 

I make it out of his flat unscathed. I’ve not completely embarrassed myself and somehow, I now have plans to go to Simon’s for dinner and a video game marathon on New Year’s Eve.

I can do this. I can keep this on a purely professional level. Friends. I can be friends with Simon. I spend the car ride home reiterating this. I have myself mostly convinced by the time I pull into my parking spot. 

I put the hoodie and joggers on when I get back to my flat. It’s distressingly weak of me but I can’t help it. I breathe in the medicinal scent of the generic laundry detergent Simon uses and close my eyes.

I’m completely fucked.

 

**Simon**

I keep checking the clock on the wall. I told Baz to come by around six. I know that’s early but dinner will take some time and then we’ll need a few hours to play video games, especially if he’s as much of a novice as he claims. This way if things are at all awkward we can go our separate ways before the clock strikes midnight and not feel obliged to drag things out until then.  

I hope that’s not how it goes. I hope he’s here to ring in the New Year with me. I hope I can get up the nerve to try again, if he is.

Try to kiss him that is.

I can’t stop thinking about that night. I’ve tried. I know everything he said is sensible and proper. _I know it is._ But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got feelings for him and I’m sure he has some for me in return. You don’t kiss like that if you don’t feel _something_. 

Work’s an inconvenience, like I told Baz. If we’re not compatible then there’s no harm done. And if we are . . . well, then maybe that’s worth the risk. I don’t know. It makes sense to me.

I might have gone a bit over the top with dinner. I’m trying very hard to have this not look like a date but I don’t think I’m succeeding very well.

The chocolate mousse is a bit of a dead giveaway. 

Fuck.

I’m such an idiot.

At least the chicken pesto is a bit ordinary. And the roasted potatoes.

I do like to cook. It’s fun to try new recipes and I’ve not got much of a sophisticated palate so even when I mess things up a bit I’m still happy to eat the result. 

Everything looks on target for tonight though. Nothing’s mucked up. Yet.

I even bought a split of champagne at the market. It’s tucked away in the back of the fridge. It won’t look like I’m trying so hard, with a split. I can talk my way around it, like it’s left over from last year or such some rubbish. Or I can let it sit there, not even bring it out. Drown my sorrows in it once he leaves. 

I hope to hell it doesn’t come to that.

I’m keeping the look casual. I’ve got jeans on and an old jumper. It’s nice but not too nice. 

Fuck, I’m trying too hard.

The doorbell rings and I’m tearing across the room. I pause before I open the door, run my hands through the mess of hair on my head and take a deep breath. _Keep it together, Simon_. This is just dinner and video games. Nothing more.

I open the door. Baz is standing there, holding a four-pack of some kind of beer. I can’t quite focus on that. He’s dressed much like I am, jeans and a jumper, jacket over the top. 

I’ve never seen Baz in jeans before.

“Hi.”

He looks good in jeans. Damn good. Fuck, I can’t take my eyes off him. 

He arches an eyebrow. “I’ve got the right night?”  
  
“Yes, yes.”

His eyebrow arches even higher. “So, are you going to let me in?”

“Oh, right, yeah, sorry.” I blink at him and step back from the doorway. “I was just distracted for a minute there.” I shut the door and turn around. 

Bad idea. Baz is facing away from me, looking around the flat. He looks even better from this angle. I am so fucked.

He turns back to me and raises both eyebrows. I hope to heaven he did not just catch me checking out his arse. “Distracted by what?”

I swallow. “The beer.” It’s the only possible answer I can give. “I was surprised you brought some over. You didn’t have to do that. I’ve got some in the kitchen. Not as posh, I’m sure.” 

“You’re providing dinner. I couldn’t come over empty handed, on a holiday, no less.” 

“Thank you.” I reach out for the pack of Winter Welcome and he hands it over then follows me to the kitchen. Baz shrugs out of his coat and I have to turn away and find a place for the beer in the fridge before I embarrass myself further. 

I swear he’s smirking.

“You want a beer now or with dinner?” 

“When’s dinner?” 

I check the oven clock, then open the oven door to peer at the chicken and potatoes. “No more than ten minutes I’d say.”

“You made dinner?” Baz looks surprised.

“Yeah, I like to cook. Thought that would be more festive than take-away.”

Something in Baz softens at my words. He’s been standing very upright since he walked in, stiff and a bit wary. “I wasn’t expecting that. That’s very kind of you, Simon.”

“I like to mess about in the kitchen. Ever since uni. Never really had home cooked food until then. Once I got a flat I started experimenting a bit. Mostly simple things—soups and stews and pasta—things I could afford.” I’m babbling but I can’t seem to stop talking. “Started trying a bit of French and Italian cuisine once I got this job. A few curries. It’s relaxing, coming home and cooking, yeah?” 

There’s a smile on Baz’s face. He rarely smiles so it’s a bit dazzling to see him do it now. I like it. Quite a lot. “My stepmother is an excellent cook. I’ve picked up a bit from her over the years but I’m no expert.” 

That makes me snort. Baz saying he’s not an expert at something likely means he’s just not got a certificate in it. “I’m sure you’re better than me, having had proper training and all. I’m self-taught.”

 

 

**Baz**

This absolute muppet _has made me dinner._ I expected something simple, curry take-away again perhaps. Not a home-cooked meal. There are so many unknown facets to Simon. I want to know them all. I lean against his kitchen counter and listen to him talk. 

I can’t let myself get carried away at the prospect of learning more about him. This isn’t a date. We are having dinner and playing video games. Things blokes do all the time. Platonic, straight blokes. Even if there is a home-cooked meal involved. 

Simon decides to bend over and take the chicken and potatoes out of the oven, so I’m getting an unobstructed view of his arse in those jeans and there is nothing straight about my thoughts at the moment at all.

We somehow make it through dinner, which is delicious. We’re both on our second beer and I’m managing to relax again, now that Simon’s arse is safely parked on his chair and not in my direct line of sight.

I curse my blasted sweet tooth when Simon brings out a dish of something that looks suspiciously like chocolate mousse for dessert.

I’m done for.

“Is that chocolate mousse?”

 “It is.”

“You made chocolate mousse?” 

“Yeah, it’s not that difficult.” Simon laughs and then shrugs. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.” He takes on a serious expression. “It’s a terribly complicated recipe, took me all afternoon to make it.” He bites his lip and then laughs again. “I’m terrible at lying. It really isn’t hard at all. I remembered you liked chocolate.” He’s grinning now. 

I groan. “Am I ever going to live that down?” 

“I doubt it.”

When Simon had first started at Watford he had tried to institute a few things around the office to brighten the atmosphere a bit. We had certainly needed it, in the aftermath of my mother’s death and Mage’s inauspicious arrival. 

They were little things at first. Arrangements of fresh flowers at the front desk. Essential oil diffusers in the waiting area. Bowls of chocolate candies in the conference rooms and front desk. 

I live for chocolate. I usually have some kind of sweet stowed away in the bottom left hand drawer of my desk. Simon had started working for Mage right before the end of year madness. I’d been so stressed dealing with Mother’s absence, the advent of Mage, and the usual mayhem of the financials that I’d run through my entire secret supply of chocolate and been too busy and distracted to restock. 

I’d spotted one of the bowls in the conference room and had eaten the entire contents during that afternoon’s staff meeting. Literally eaten every piece. In front of all the senior management staff and their assistants. Simon included. 

It created a bit of a stir. I was teased about it for weeks, particularly by the old-timers like Possibelf and Minos. I’d find chocolate bars on my desk. A second bowl of chocolate had appeared in the conference room labeled ‘ _For Baz’_ while the original bowl sported a mournful ‘ _For Everyone Else_.’ I’d come in on Good Friday that year to find an entire Easter basket full of chocolate bunnies in front of my office door. And plastic eggs filled with chocolate stashed all around my office. I was still finding stray ones months later. 

I never found out who the culprits were. It all died down by that summer, with an occasional mystery chocolate surprise showing up at Christmas and Easter. I’d always assumed it was Possibelf, until I found a mint Aero on my desk a few weeks ago, long after she’d been gone. 

I narrow my eyes at Simon. A theory has been forming in my head as I take in the import of his words, the chocolate mousse sitting in front of me, and the undeniably smug expression on his face.

“It was you, you wanker!”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Baz.” But he laughs, because he truly is the world’s worst liar.

“All the chocolate, you pillock! All that time it was you!” 

“I can’t believe you are just figuring this out now.” Simon leans back and crosses his arms, then shakes his head at me ruefully. “And here I thought you were so clever. I’ve been sadly misled it seems.” 

I’m gob-smacked. It had never crossed my mind it could be Simon. I’d naturally assumed it was someone who knew me well, someone who was trying to lift my spirits, who knew my appetite for sweets. Not the boy who had just started at Watford but who now, in retrospect, I find to be surprisingly subtle and perceptive. 

I must be gaping at him because he laughs again, that bright sound ringing in my ears and I don’t want him to stop.

We do the washing up together and it’s as achingly domestic as it was that morning at my flat. I can’t let myself think about that. 

We eventually settle ourselves on Simon’s sofa and he launches into a long-winded discussion of the games he has on hand. I must look fairly blank because he laughs again.  
  
“We’ll just start with Mario Kart then, since you know how to play that.”

He settles in next to me, gives me a quick refresher on the controllers and then it’s on.

I am nothing if not competitive. It takes me a few rounds but I do get the hang of it fairly quickly, to Simon’s mounting frustration.

“How are you doing this? You’ve not been straight with me, Baz. You’ve played this more than once.” 

I’m tempted to make the obvious joke but I refrain. “I told you, I played it at Christmas. That’s it.” I smirk at him. “I’m just a quick study.”

“So it seems.”

I’m not sure if Simon notices but he’s shifted closer to me on the sofa, so that his knee is pressed up against mine. It’s distracting, to say the least, but under no circumstances am I moving my leg away.

 

**Simon**

He’s a fucking natural at this. We’ve moved on from Mario Kart and I’m trying to teach him how to play Monster Hunter now. I love this game. Even though the Long Sword is one of the most basic weapons it’s still my favourite.

I try to get Baz started with that or the Dual Blades but he’s determined to use the Bow.

I don’t mind all that much. He’s so focused on the game and on besting me that he hasn’t noticed me creeping closer to him (competitive bastard) (he’s ridiculously good at this).

We’re shoulder to shoulder now, thighs alongside each other. It’s the closest we’ve been all night. It’s the closest we’ve been since that night at his flat. 

Baz finally makes a misstep and gets destroyed. He growls at the screen and leans forward to rest the controller on the table. “Shall we go again?” 

I’ve created a monster. I don’t mean on-screen. I mean Baz. It’s almost midnight. I can’t believe we’ve been playing for hours. 

“It’s almost midnight.”

His eyes widen in surprise as he looks down at his watch and then back at me. “I’m sorry, Simon. I had no idea. I never meant to stay so late.” He shifts away from me, putting some space between our legs. 

“It’s kind of the point of New Year’s Eve, isn’t it? Ring in the New Year and all? You don’t need to go just yet.” I turn off the Nintendo and click through the channels to find the televised countdown. “We’ve a few minutes to go. No point in you leaving before then.” 

I lean my head on the back of the sofa. “You want another beer? Or something else?” 

He leans back next to me, a few inches separating us now, head turned in my direction. His eyes change color with the light, his mood, his expression. They’re a dark grey now, in the dimness of the room. “No, I probably shouldn’t have anything more.” 

I sit up. “I just remembered. I’ve got a bottle of some champagne in the fridge, left over from last year. I think Penny bought it.” I’m lying but I don’t care. “We should have that, ring in the year with the right drink, yeah?” 

“Don’t waste a bottle on me, Simon.”

I’m already up and headed to the kitchen. “It’s one of those little bottles, what do you call them? Half of one?”

“A split?” 

“Yeah, that’s it.” I make a show of rummaging around the fridge and then clatter in the cabinets until I find the only two wine glasses I own. “You have any idea how to open one of these? It’s not like a regular wine cork, is it?”

Baz is off the sofa and in the kitchen in an instant. “Give me that, you absolute numpty—you’ll knock out a light fixture, if you’re not careful.” He takes the bottle from me, unwinds the metal covering then gently pries the cork out of the bottle with his thumbs. It makes a satisfying pop and a light spray of mist puffs out of the top of the bottle. “That’s how you do it.”

He pours some into each glass, hands me one and picks up the other himself. “To a happy New Year, Simon.”

 “Happy New Year, Baz. Here’s to a good year for us both.” I clink my glass against his, just as the cheers and shouts erupt from the television in the other room. We’re standing side by side, leaning back against the kitchen counter.

 I want to kiss him again.

 I can’t think of a better way to start the year off.

 

 

**Baz**

He’s so close I can feel the heat emanating from his skin. Simon runs warm, I noticed that when we were sitting together on the sofa. I bring my eyes back to my glass. I can’t look at him right now. I desperately want to kiss him. That’s what everyone’s doing now, at all the parties and gatherings across the city. It’s what I’d do, if things were different for us.

The back of Simon’s hand brushes against mine. His skin’s so warm. I always run cold, even in the depths of summer. 

Not now, though. I feel like someone lit a fire in my chest. I keep staring into my glass, not daring to look at Simon, even when his fingers reach out to intertwine with my own. It’s an effort to keep my breath steady, my heart already racing from his touch. 

“Baz.” Simon’s voice is hushed. He tugs me towards him and then takes the glass from my other hand to rest it on the counter. “It’s tradition, I think.” He’s holding both my hands now and he pulls me to him, going up on his tiptoes to press a quick kiss to my lips.  
  
That’s all it is, a quick brush of lips and then he’s stepping back.

I surge forward and capture his lips with mine. I can’t control the impulse. I can hear that bloody voice in my head telling me what a bad idea this is but it can kindly shut the fuck up. 

His arms go around me and all I can feel is his touch, his heat, the sweetness of him as his lips fall open.

 

 

**Simon**

It’s a few moments before we come up for air. I’ve got my hands in Baz’s hair and his are at my hips, keeping me close. He brings his forehead to rest against mine, eyes closed. I feel a twinge of anxiety at his silence, at the way he’s biting his lip. 

“It’s just a New Year’s kiss, Baz. For luck.” I breathe the words into the space between us. I hear him swallow, feel his fingers dig into my sides as he pulls back. 

“Everything I said the other day, Simon, none of that’s changed.” His eyes are open now, forehead creased. 

“Nothing I said has changed either. No one needs to know. This is between you and me. Not the rest of the world.”  I run my fingers through his hair. “Just us.”

 He shakes his head and gives me a rueful smile. “You’ve already admitted you’re the world’s worst liar.” 

“Only about things that don’t matter.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“I can be discreet. You had no idea it was me with the chocolates, did you?”

Baz huffs a soft laugh and it makes me want to kiss him again. “That’s different.” His gaze turns serious. “This is your job on the line, Simon.” 

“I told you. No one needs to know. I want you, Baz.” I don’t know how much clearer I can be. I’m willing to take that chance, I’ve told him so. It’s a risk to him too, I’m well aware. I’ll back down in an instant, for his sake. But if his concern’s all for me? For my sake? Then no, I can handle that side of it just fine. 

I’m better at keeping secrets than he thinks.

 

 

**Baz**

“It’s you I’m worried about, Simon.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” 

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“I’m not.” 

I can’t reason with him. I want him to convince me, I want to say yes, to acquiesce, to give in and let this take me where it will. But that’s not the responsible thing to do and I am nothing if not responsible. 

“We can’t have a relationship, Simon. I don’t know how many different ways I can say it. I’ve been an idiot, letting myself get carried away like this. This will only hurt you in the end.”

“Then let’s not.” 

I stare at him. “What?” I can’t help but feel the bitter disappointment, even though he’s finally being sensible. 

“Let’s not have a relationship. We don’t have to give this a name, a designation. Then we can both be truthful, if it ever comes up. We’re not in a relationship. We’re not breaking any rules.” 

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” 

“No, it’s not. You’ve been saying we can’t do anything at all. I’m saying we can do whatever we want to do, as long as we don’t call it anything specific. It’s not dating, fraternizing, what have you. It’s just us.” 

“That’s semantics.”

“And the policy manual isn’t just a collection of semantics?”

We’re still wrapped around each other, which makes this conversation even more surreal. I drop my forehead onto his again. “I’m not getting it, I’m not understanding what you mean.” 

Simon smiles. “It’s all in how you look at things. We can think about this however we like. But we don’t have to give it a designation, a title, a name. We take it day by day. We see how things progress. In two weeks you may have had enough of my cooking. In a month I may have had enough of you destroying me at Mario Kart. I don’t know. What I do know is I’d like to see where this takes us, you and me.”   

“No designation?”

“None.”

“If Bunce suspects anything?” 

“I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.”

“You are utterly ridiculous, you know that?”

“You like me anyway.” 

He’s right. I do.

I pull him towards me, lower my mouth to his and let myself go. 

Simon’s arms circle around me, sliding up my back to grip me closer to him. I’ve got my hands in his hair now, fingers winding around the curls. His lips are soft, insistent, falling open as I run my tongue lightly against them. I can taste a tinge of champagne as I deepen the kiss. His body is pressed to mine, the warmth of it seeping into me. He must feel the pounding of my heart. He slides his leg between my own and a flare of heat rushes through me. I tug him closer. 

It’s still not close enough.

It could be minutes or hours later, when I finally pull my lips from his. “I should go.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I can’t stay here.”

I can’t. It’s not the champagne I drank. It’s Simon who has me intoxicated. My impulse control is not functioning at its best at the moment. I need to go before I completely lose control. Before I say or do more than I should.

I step out of his embrace, just our hands linked now.

“You can stay. Who’s going to know?”

“I’ll know.”

I long to pull him close again but I don’t. I can’t think when he’s near me. 

I still need to process what exactly I’ve agreed to tonight. My mind is reeling, from the heady sensation of Simon in my arms, the kisses we’ve been exchanging, the ache of how much I want this, the back and forth we’ve had about the nature of whatever _this_ is. I need time away from the devastating gorgeousness of him, away from the distraction of his kisses, his scent, his touch, so I can think. 

“You’re sure?” 

I nod. I’m talked out. I’m bereft of words and I need to put my mind in order. My heart’s already a lost cause.

I find my jacket, give Simon another dizzying, lingering kiss before I walk out his door. “I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?” 

His smile is tired but bright. “You better, you wanker.” 

My brain is still playing back the events of this night when I finally get to my flat. I don’t know how not calling this anything makes any difference. I’m too tired to think it through right now. I just want to replay the memories of kissing Simon over and over.  
  
I fall asleep still feeling the sensation of his lips on mine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Simon**

I’m up early. I always am, no matter how late I get to bed. And last night was late for me. 

I couldn’t get to sleep after Baz left. The combination of excitement, apprehension, and outright longing for him took a while to settle down. There’s a tinge of apprehension still lingering this morning. 

I know he kissed me. I know he responded as willingly and passionately as I could hope. But Baz gets into his head sometimes I think, and he’s built up an entire spreadsheet of reasons why this is a bad idea. 

It’s not like I’ve not thought of all that.

But there’s also a few reasons why this is an excellent idea, the first and foremost being that we have an undeniable attraction to each other. And I think we’d be good together. I really do.

I’m perfectly willing to forego all the trappings of a normal relationship, just to give this a chance. 

I’d like to think Baz would too. 

Fuck. 

I don’t know. I wish he hadn’t left last night. Not when there was so much more to talk through. So much more time we could have had together. 

I’ve never seen Baz at a loss for words. 

To be honest it unnerved me a bit. In a good way, yeah, that I could render him speechless. But also in a way that’s making my stomach twist with anxiety that maybe I crossed a line and I’ve fucked it all up. 

But he didn’t say no. I know that. _He didn’t say no._

He didn’t outright say yes either. 

 _Fuck._  

I make breakfast. I watch some television. I even resort to cleaning the bathroom, which is a task I absolutely loathe.

I’m waiting for Baz to call or text or something and I can’t settle down.

Having proposed this non-relationship relationship to Baz seems to be doing wonders for the upkeep of my flat, but not so much for my state of mind. By eleven I’ve cleaned the detested bathroom, sorted my laundry, changed my sheets, and made a batch of salted caramel scones. It’s a new recipe and it’s not bad, but nothing like the cherry scones I make in the summer. 

By noon I’m beyond agitated. Should I call him? Send a text? 

Fuck it. I’m all nervous energy. 

In the end I go for a jog mostly because I can’t think of anything else to do in my flat.

So, of course, that’s when I get a text from Baz. 

I’m almost home when my mobile vibrates in my pocket but I’m too worked up to wait. I stop, chest heaving a bit, and yank it out of my joggers. 

**_Baz:_ ** _Happy New Year, Simon **.**_

I wait to see if there’s a follow up to that. There’s not, of course. Wanker. 

I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been waiting all morning to hear from him and now that I have a text—a bland, noncommittal text—I don’t know how to respond. 

**_Simon:_ ** _Started off the year with a jog in the park_

**_Baz_ ** _: Why am I not surprised by that?_

I’m trying to come up with an appropriate response when another text from him pops up.

**_Baz:_ ** _do you have a landline?_

**_Simon_ ** _: ?_

My mobile starts ringing and I see it’s him. I pick up. 

“Hey.” 

“Good morning, Simon.”

“It’s afternoon, actually. I’m glad you texted, er, called.”

“Do you have a landline at your flat or just a mobile?”

“Just the mobile.”

There’s silence on the line. My heart starts to race. I’ve thought about this issue enough in the last week, in the last twenty-four hours, to know exactly what he’s getting at with that question. 

And I’ve got an answer ready.

“We can get burner mobiles. Virgin has good rates or we can use Lyca.”

There are drawbacks to workplace issued mobiles. This is the best way to bypass that. Baz hasn’t answered me yet and it makes my pulse pound even faster. 

If he’s asked the question it must mean he’s considering it? Considering us?

I’m holding my breath.

He’s still not saying anything. I can’t take it. I just blurt out what I’m thinking. 

“Come over to my place, Baz. Let’s talk in person, yeah?” 

“You’re sure?” I don’t think he’s just asking about him coming over. I think his question encompasses so much more.

“Positive.” I run a hand through my sweaty hair. “Give me a half hour to clean up?”

I can hear Baz snort through the mobile. “I’ll see you then. Have you eaten or shall I bring something?”

My stomach rumbles at the thought of food. “I’d not say no to that.”

There’s a muffled sound again, almost like a laugh. “Alright then, Simon.”

I race the rest of the way home. At least the flat is neat and somewhat tidy after my anxiety-induced cleaning frenzy this morning.

 

 

**Baz**

I’m not sure going over to Snow’s flat is the best of ideas. My head is still spinning with the implications of his words last night.

I’ve not slept well. I couldn’t fall asleep when I got home last night, with all those delectable visions of Simon in my head.

I woke up far earlier than I would have liked this morning.

I’m always a bit bad-tempered when I haven’t slept well. Even more cross when I have a lot on my mind.

I have a lot on my mind.

I’d been looking forward to a good lie-in this morning, what with the holiday. I’d not expected to be constructing detailed pro/con arguments in my head half the night. It had taken utmost restraint not to sit down with a pen and paper and make an actual list at half past two in the morning.

As if that would have accomplished anything. There are far too many cons to this daft idea and basically one pro—Simon himself. 

It’s undeniably tempting. Totally enthralling to contemplate—it’s everything I’ve dreamed of since I first met him. It’s what I’ve fantasized about for months. It’s been this tantalizing daydream and the realization that I just might be able to make it my reality has sent me into an emotional tailspin.

I don’t get good things. They don’t just happen to me like this. 

That’s not my reality. 

But fuck it all. I want this. It’s mad and utterly stupid and risky and a whole host of other descriptions that should have me sending Simon a strongly worded text that it’s all bollocks and I’m not even remotely considering it.

I’d be lying if I did that. 

So instead I’m driving over to his flat, having managed to compile a list of necessary precautions to put in place before we embark on this lunacy. 

Categorized. Itemized. Detail driven. 

Bloody hell, I am such a fucking catastrophe. 

I forgot to pick up the kebabs.

 

**Simon**

My hair is an utter disaster but I can’t be arsed over it. It’s still damp when there’s a knock on my door. I’m trying so hard to look casual again—t-shirt and trackies, my standard weekend uniform—but as I run for the door I wish I’d put something else on. I look like a knobhead, I’m sure. 

Compared to Baz I do. He’s all cool elegance in fucking form fitted jeans again as he stands at the threshold and it takes sheer determination to drag my eyes up to his face.

It should be criminal for anyone to look this good in a turtleneck.

“Er . . . hi . . . come in.” I sound a complete tit.

Baz sweeps in but doesn’t take off his coat. He stands by my door, face cool and imperious, but I can see the strain of the fabric as his hands ball up into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. 

“Uh. . . I can take your coat?” 

Baz clears his throat and blinks twice before shrugging off his jacket. I can’t read him at all right now, his face is like a mask. 

I shift to place his coat on the peg by the door and that brings me closer to him, near enough to catch a trace of the cedar and bergamot scent that is so uniquely his. 

He smells so damn good. 

I linger for a minute by his coat, clenching the fabric in my hands as I do, to keep myself from pouncing on him. His hair’s down today, not slicked back like usual. 

I want to slide my fingers through it.

He’s still not said anything. He looks even better without his coat and it’s got me distracted. I should invite him in, make some tea, grab him by the shoulders and snog him senseless, anything other than just stare at him like a gobsmacked numpty. 

I feel like a gobsmacked numpty, to be honest. Baz is here. He’s actually considering what I suggested last night. 

At least I think he is. I guess I haven’t got confirmation of that yet. 

“You want to come in, have some tea?” 

“That sounds perfect.” There’s a hint of relief in his eyes, I think, at the mundanity of my suggestion. He swallows then glances down, a faint flush on his cheeks. It’s the softest he’s looked since he walked in. “Sorry, I . . . ah . . . I forgot to bring the kebabs.”

I blink back at him and then remember he said he was going to bring food. I wave my hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it. There’s chicken from last night. I can heat it up in a bit.”  

I bustle about the kitchen, turning the kettle on, pulling mugs out of the cabinet, plating the scones I made earlier. Baz sits at the table, chin resting in his hand, following me with his eyes.

I gesture at the scones. “Have one.” 

His eyebrow arches and he looks more like himself. “And deprive you of your basic dietary staple, Simon?”

“I don’t just eat scones, you know.” I place the butter dish on the table.

“I should hope not. You’d have some obscure disease like scurvy or beri beri if that’s all you ate.” 

“I like berries.” 

“You truly are hopeless, Simon, I hope you know that.” I think he’s making fun of me but I don’t care. There’s a smile on Baz’s face now and I can’t help but think it looks a bit fond.

Good. 

“I’ll have you know I made those scones. I was trying out a new recipe this morning. Salted caramel.” 

And that’s all it takes for him to reach over and pluck one from the serving plate. He’s got such a sweet tooth. 

I busy myself with the tea and find myself relaxing a bit. I can’t let myself get agitated _. He’s here_ , I remind myself. 

I settle in the chair next to him and push a mug across the table. I know how he takes his tea.

 

**Baz**

I’ve reached for a scone and taken a bite just as Simon sinks into the chair next to me, his leg briefly bumping mine as he pulls in closer to the table. 

I feel like a tit. I’ve barely managed two complete sentences since I walked in the door and one was vaguely insulting. Maybe not even vaguely. 

Eating a scone should keep me from saying anything stupid for at least the next minute or two.

Or not.

“Bloody hell, Simon, this is fucking fantastic.” I’ve barely swallowed my bite before I’m spouting off about it. Damn my bloody sweet tooth.

This scone warrants the praise. It’s far better than any of the bakery ones that show up in the break room at Watford. It’s sweet and salty, perfect texture and consistency, the caramel chunks a tasty surprise. “You made this?” I wave the remnant of my scone in his direction, heedless of the crumbs it scatters on the tabletop. 

Simon smiles, cheeks flushing. “I did. Told you I liked to cook, didn’t I?” He slides a mug of tea across the table to me. I can tell by the hue that he’s already added the milk. I reach for the sugar but he stops me with a touch to my forearm. 

The sensation sizzles up my arm, as if I’ve been touched by a live wire. “Taste it first. I’ve already made it up for you, Baz.” 

I take a sip and the warmth I feel isn’t from the tea alone. It’s perfect. Just how I like it. 

How does he do it? How does he know? 

Simon’s hand is still on my arm and he’s sliding it down my sleeve until his fingers find mine and interlock. His hand is so warm and I can’t help squeezing it once before gently resting mine in his. 

It almost makes it easy, like this. As if nothing else matters, nothing but the two of us, the world outside fading away until all that’s left is Simon and me, in this kitchen, holding hands. 

“So?” Simon’s voice is hushed, his brilliant blue eyes focused on me. 

“So.”

“We’re going to try this then?” 

It’s why I’m here, after all, isn’t it? It’s why I was up half the night, why I’ve got an entire list of reasons not to do this etched into my brain, why my heart is racing as he rubs his thumb against my skin. 

“Whatever _this_ is,” I whisper back.

Simon’s thumb keeps moving on my skin. “It’s whatever we want it to be. No labels. Just us, yeah?”

“Just us.” 

It sounds so simple when he says it. 

  

**Simon**

Predictably it doesn’t take Baz very long to start in with the questions. He finishes his scone, drinks his tea, then fixes me with a look. 

I know this look. 

It’s the one that usually appears at staff meetings, right before he asks a question that results in various people scrambling to their laptops or spreadsheets for answers. 

This time it’s just me. And I don’t have all the answers.

But I’ve got some. I’ve thought this through.

He just has far too many questions. 

“Ok, pause for one minute and let me say something.” Baz’s forehead creases at my interruption. I keep going. “Stop getting caught up in the complications for a moment. Take it back to the basics.” I squeeze his hand for emphasis. “The basics: I like you. You, as far as I can tell, like me?” 

I can’t help the slight inflection at the end of that sentence. It’s not as if he’s come out and said it.

“Of course I like you, you numpty. Would I even be here discussing this, if I didn’t?” His voice is sharp but his eyes aren’t. His leg bumps mine under the table, and I press my knee against his and keep it there. 

“Well, that’s all right then. That’s the important bit.”

“I think the policies in the handbook might carry some weight, Simon?”

I shake my head. “I told you. I’ve thought this through. No labels, so nothing to explain if anyone gets suspicious. If either of us get asked about being in a relationship with each other, the answer is easily no. Because we’ve not defined it that way. 

“You know that’s just wordplay.”

“That’s the whole point. Now moving on to the details. We both have company issue mobiles so text and calls may well be monitored by Watford. If we get a second set, just for us, there’s no trail to follow and no rules broken with company property. Next we need to define how we approach our interactions at work, how we make time for each other, where we can safely spend time . . .”

  

 **Baz**  

Simon goes on in a dizzying display of forethought and deviousness. I didn’t think he had it in him. I’m listening, but I’m also somewhat distracted by the pressure of his knee against mine and the way his thumb is rubbing over my knuckles. 

We bicker for a bit longer over details with the upshot finally being a framework we can hopefully both adhere to and that makes this all seem far more real. 

The devil is in the details.

 ** _Rule number one_ : **burner mobiles. No personal texts, emails, or calls on the ones issued to us by the company. Simple to do. Not traceable to our accounts. Somewhat challenging to explain to others why we have two phones.

I’ll figure that out later.

 ** _Rule number two_ : **no fraternizing on company property or at company events. Meaning we maintain a civil and perhaps slightly less frigid level of interaction at work, but we don’t go out for lunch or coffee or plan late nights at the office together.

No more dinners at my desk. We’ve only done that once, but I feel a bit of a pang at the thought that it won’t happen again.

There’s a fair bit of grey area with this one. We obviously have to interact during the workday, as well as at meetings and work-related social events, but we shouldn’t be any more congenial in attitude than the recent holiday party.  That seems obvious. 

Simon’s actually jotting notes down now. I lean over to see what he’s scribbling. His penmanship is truly atrocious, but I manage to make out the words: _no private jests, no pet names, no touches or overt proximity._  

“What do you mean ‘ _pet names’_? I’ve barely started to call you Simon. Shall I go back to Snow now?”

Simon wrinkles his nose. It’s adorable. “No, I don’t want you to go back to calling me Snow. I like it when you call me Simon.” He fidgets in his chair, running a hand through his bronze curls. “I mean more intimate words. You know like ‘ _love’_ or ‘ _darling_.’ Those kinds of things.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I can assure you that won’t happen.”

“Still makes sense to make it a rule. Can’t forget it that way.” 

“Suit yourself. Won’t be necessary for me.” 

 ** _Rule number three:_** no socializing in public outside work hours. This is the kicker. The one that makes things awkward.

“So no going out to see a film?” It’s Simon who asks the question this time. “Or dinner?”

“Of course not. Why would I go to a film with you if we’re just coworkers?”

“Well, you know, what if the new _Star Wars_ film came out and you didn’t have anyone to see it with and you said something in casual conversation like ‘ _hey, Simon, have you seen the new Star Wars film yet?_ ’ and I could say ‘ _no, haven’t had a chance, mate, none of my friends have wanted to see it_ ’ and you could say ‘ _same’_ and then I could suggest we go see it together. In a purely platonic fashion.”

“First, I would never say something like that. Second, since when do you call me _mate_? And third and most significantly, it’s far too risky.”

“How is it risky? We’re just going out to see a film. It’s a friendly coworker kind of thing to do. Mates and all.” He juts his chin out and narrows his eyes. “Dev calls you _mate_ when he stops by the office.” 

I roll my eyes. “He’s my cousin and a dolt. He calls everyone that.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry, Simon, but that kind of going out scenario is too risky. What if we run into someone from work? What if I get distracted and reach out for your hand? No, it’s far too chancy. That’s off limits.”

Simon frowns at me. “So you mean it, no going out in public? Even like friends or whatnot?” 

“But we aren’t _friends_. People would question it.”

“Well, maybe we are friends now. After the holiday party. We bonded over my morose drunken display.”  

I knew it. This isn’t going to work. There’s nothing clandestine about this boy. It was foolish of me to even consider it. It’s been a few kisses and some hand holding, but this is completely doomed beyond that.

“What’s with that face?” Simon shifts closer to me.

I let go of his hand and lean back in my chair, away from him, shoulders hunched. “It’s just what I said last night. It’s not going to be straightforward and it doesn’t make sense to even try, I don’t think. There’s no way we can manage it, if we’re quarreling already, and it’s obvious you don’t want to follow the most basic stipulations that would keep this under wraps.”

“That’s not true. And we’re not quarreling. I’m just trying to delineate the limits. There are things coworkers do, Baz. Situations where they can interact outside of the work environment without it being suspicious. People do have work friends. I do stuff with Penny all the time.” 

“Because she’s your friend.”

“Just because I want a relationship with you doesn’t mean I can’t be your friend, Baz.”

“I thought the whole point is that this isn’t a _relationship_? Isn’t that what you said?” I’m getting a headache. I should have trusted my instincts. This is destined to be a disaster if we can’t even agree on a basic set of ground rules.

“It’s an undefined relationship. One that has no strict delineation, but that doesn’t mean it can’t manifest as friendship to some extent.” Simon’s frowning at me, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“If we’re having so much trouble figuring this out, maybe we should just forget about it, Simon. It’s fraught with the potential to be an unmitigated disaster and we can’t even agree on the most basic concepts.” I shake my head and stand up. “I’m sorry. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have come.” 

Simon stands up as well, almost knocking his chair over as he does. He reaches out and grabs my hands, both of them this time. “Baz, stop.” He attempts to tug me to him but I stand my ground.

It’s no use. This was a nice fantasy but it’s not feasible in the real world.

He huffs a quiet “tosser” at me and steps closer himself. I can’t move. He’s so near. Blue eyes gazing up at me, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration, his hands running up and down my arms now in a strangely soothing manner. 

I can’t look away. 

 

**Simon**

Baz looks ready to bolt. I’m such a moron. 

Everything he’s saying makes sense. It’s what I’d mapped out in my head as well, but it just sounded so stark when it was spelled out like that. So regimented and rigid. 

I know it has to be that way, to work. I can just imagine Mage’s fury and HR’s dismay if this ever gets out. It can’t get out. 

It’s daunting when I think about it that way.

I won’t think about that. I clench my jaw and will the thought away.

Getting to know Baz is what I’ve wanted since I started at Watford. I meant it when I said I wanted to be friends. I want Baz in all sorts of ways, but friendship is still a part of that. 

It’s the basis of everything. 

I need to focus on that. That’s what matters. 

There’s an undeniable spark here, between us, always has been. 

It’s a spark I want to fan to a flame. Turn it all the way up to a fucking inferno. 

And all I’m doing now is dousing it.

“I’m sorry. I’ve made it all awkward. I don’t mean to, Baz. You’re right, of course. I should know that better than anyone.” I bring my hands up to gently cup his face. His eyes close and his head drops forward. 

I could kiss him but I don’t think that’s the right thing to do at this moment. I rub my thumb against his cheekbone and then step forward to rest my head against his shoulder, my arms circling him in a gentle embrace.  

It takes a moment but then his arms come around me and I hear him sigh, his breath warm against my hair.

I’m going to hold him as long as it takes to keep him from bolting. We need to talk this through. 

I want this to work out.

It’s not going to be easy. Watford doesn’t make this sort of thing simple, not with the blasted reforms Mage has made to the HR regulations, not with the scrutiny he keeps Baz under, not with the way I’m with Mage almost all the time as his personal assistant.  

I let my hands rub gentle circles against Baz’s back, my head still resting on his shoulder.

It wouldn’t have been like this when Baz’s mother ran the company. Not that she didn’t run a tight ship—she did, no question. Penny talks about those days often, especially when Mage has subjected her to another of his frequent and wearisome tirades. 

Penny worked here the year before the accident. She’s the one who told me how Watford used to be. 

Told me how things were when Baz’s mother was in charge. 

I can’t help but pull him closer as my mind wanders back to Penny’s words.

Natasha Pitch was an exacting and precise CEO, formidable and focused. But she was also an understanding supervisor, a caring coworker, one who had stringent rules but who knew how to keep them human. 

She was also a hell of a lot of fun, if you ever got Possibelf and Minos going with stories about her.

I got them going. I hounded them for information, whenever I could spare a few minutes from Mage’s dictates. 

I wanted to learn everything about Watford. It was my first real position, other than the coffee shop and summer grounds keeping jobs I had when I was at uni, or any of the temp posts I’ve held on and off since then.

None of the positions I had before Watford count.

I don’t know how long I’ve been holding Baz. It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that he’s letting me. 

Despite his words earlier, despite his protestations and concerns, he’s holding me just as tightly as I’m holding him. 

I completely understand Baz’s concern for my job and his, if this gets out. I know it’s a risk to even contemplate this. It’s not as if I haven’t tried to stop being fixated on him. 

I have. I’ve tried. 

But I can’t help being drawn to him. And it’s not just because he’s drop-dead gorgeous. That’s just a part of it. It’s not the reason I’m attracted to him.

Well, it’s not the _main reason_. He is absolutely stunning to look at, but he’s got hidden depths. There’s the person who shows up at Watford, who does the work, is exacting and detail focused, distant and reserved, who serves out biting commentary, and has an outrageous appetite for sweets, but there’s also someone behind that indifferent and arrogant mask.

Someone hidden behind the composed, cool, critical persona he inhabits at work.

I’ve caught glimpses. And that’s what keeps drawing me back. That’s who I want to get to know. The real person behind that impersonal façade. 

That’s what’s worth the risk.

 

 

**Baz**

I should be out the door by now but I’m weak. Simon’s arms are around my neck and his head is resting on my shoulder and I can’t make myself move. 

I should go. I’m deluding myself by staying. 

I want to hold him in my arms for one more minute, to savor this sensation one last time.

Simon’s stomach chooses this exact moment to rumble audibly and I can’t help the huff that escapes me. 

Simon groans and buries his face into the space between my shoulder and neck. I can feel the heat of his breath as he mumbles. “Sorry.”

My grip on him tightens for an instant before I step back. “I do suppose I owe you a meal, Simon. I recall promising you one.” 

I’m pathetic, truly. I should be leaving, not offering to buy him lunch, even if I do owe it to him.

Simon keeps his hands on my shoulders, not letting me sever the physical contact. “I told you we can have the leftover chicken.” He tilts his head. “That’ll have to do. I’m sure all the shops are closed for the holiday.”

Blast it. I’d not thought of that. He’s probably right. It is New Year’s Day, after all.

“Sit. I’ll get it all heated up.”

“I’ll help." 

It’s a mistake to let myself savor the domesticity of setting a table and sharing a meal with Simon.

 

**Simon**

I keep the topics light while we eat, not letting Baz return to the weighty discussion that had prompted his earlier attempt to bolt. I’m babbling, I’m sure, talking about Penny, my Dr. Who obsession, the latest episode of this new cooking show I’m following. 

It keeps Baz occupied at least. Keeps him from leaving.

I make more tea and this time I drag us to the front room, make Baz sit on the sofa next to me when he tries to position himself in the chair instead. I want to keep him close. 

“Alright then?” 

“Simon . . .” 

I shake my head. “Baz, before you say anything, let me just say something first, please.” I run a hand through my hair, clench a handful of curls as I try to choose my words with care. “We’re making this harder than it needs to be.” I hold my hand up when he tries to protest. “No, hear me out. I know we’ve got to have ground rules and such. But maybe . . . maybe we could try to just get to know each other a bit first? Start off as friends?” 

“Friends?” 

“Friends. I mean we still probably don’t want to advertise the fact and all, seeing how you and Mage are at each other’s throats most of the time.” 

“Friends meaning what exactly?” His brow’s furrowed. 

I shrug. “Meaning we start to hang out a bit more? See each other outside of work. Talk, text, call? You know, friend things.”

“It didn’t seem as if you were looking for _a friend_ last night.” Baz’s gaze is piercing and direct. 

I waggle my eyebrows at him. “Friend with benefits, maybe, yeah?” 

He rolls his eyes at me. “You’re incorrigible.” He leans back, a more thoughtful expression on his face. “Isn’t that giving it a label? I thought your whole point was keeping this discreet and undefined?” 

“The whole point of ‘friends with benefits’ is that it’s discreet and undefined.” 

Baz rolls his eyes and we’re at it again, going hammer and tongs about what ‘ _friends with benefits’_ entails, and what the ramifications are, and I swear I’m going to kiss him if he doesn’t shut up. 

He doesn’t shut up.

Not until I reach over to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and scoot closer to him. He stops mid-sentence, lips slightly parted, his olive cheeks flushing as I draw near.

“How about we stop worrying about the definitions, yeah?”

Baz swallows as I place my hand on his thigh. “What should we worry about then?” 

“I think we should stop worrying, period.” I lean closer, touch the tip of my nose to his. “I’m inclined to suggest we stop thinking altogether.” My other hand slides up to sink into his dark hair.  

“Whatever would we do then?” It’s just a whisper but I can feel his breath on my lips. 

I bring my mouth to his and breathe. “This.” 

 

**Baz**

I’m reclined against the armrest of the sofa and Simon Snow is snogging me senseless. I’ve no idea how long we’ve been at it but I don’t give a damn.

I like this far better than arguing about the semantics of nights out or parameters of physical contact. 

I like this a whole fucking lot.

I’m not quite sure how Simon ends up in my lap, but I’m not about to complain. He’s got a knee on either side of me and he keeps bending down to kiss me, and then he draws back and smirks when I reach up for him. He’s been doing this since we came up for air a few minutes ago and it’s as maddening as it is arousing. 

I’ve got my hands under his t-shirt, tracing the planes of his back with my fingertips. He’s so warm, Christ, he’s like a furnace. My jumper feels like far too much at the moment but I’m not about to just start ripping my clothes off with reckless abandon. 

I’m a Pitch, after all. I have some sense of decorum.

Simon, it seems, has none. He’s tugging at the hem of my turtleneck and then pulling it up to expose my abdomen, his hands tracing patterns on my skin that make me shiver despite the heat. 

Every time he skims my waistline with his scorching touch I am made aware of the progressive tightening of my jeans.

I want this so fucking much. _I want him._ I was ready to walk out the door before, ready to repress every urge I had, force myself to keep this disastrous crush of mine forever unrequited. 

But I can’t make myself go. How do I walk away from this? It’s bloody impossible to resist Simon on a good day.  

But this—this Simon who’s sprawled on top of me, legs bracketing mine, who shifts position and makes me aware that I’m not the only one whose pants are a bit strained at the moment? 

There is no fucking way I could walk away from him.

  

 

 **Simon**  

Baz is so beautiful right now, his hair all mussed and eyes wide, pupils huge and dark. I like him like this. Under my hands. Not trying to talk his way out of this, not pushing me away with that hopeless look in his eyes.

 _I’ve got you_ , I think _. I’ve finally got you where I want you._  

I’ve just got to hold on to the hope he wants this too. 

From the bulge in his jeans and the way he groaned just now when I shifted, I’m fairly certain he’s not about to voice any complaints. 

That moment of friction felt so good but I don’t want to rush things. I don’t want to pressure Baz. 

I know I said _‘friends with benefits’_ , and honestly it’s probably the simplest way to describe this unnamed thing we’ve got going right now. But I don’t want him to think this is just about getting off and based on nothing more than intense sexual attraction.

I mean eventually I’d not say no to getting off and following this sexual attraction to whatever conclusion it leads us to, but for the moment I don’t want to spook him. He’s on edge about all this, no matter how his cock is reacting to me. 

And for me it’s more than just that fact that I find Baz unbelievably hot and intensely attractive. He’s fit, but he’s so much more than that. 

I honestly think I want to get in his head more than in his pants. I want to know the real Baz, the one who’s hiding somewhere in there, just below that smug exterior. That’s who I’m so desperately curious about. 

So I’m not going to let this go any further tonight. I’m not in this for the sex. 

I mean, I’m hoping it leads to sex down the line, but I can manage with the occasional solitary wank while I’m getting to know him. I’d prefer to start off slow with the hope of things to come rather than let it all go up in flames because I rushed things. 

I pull back, supporting my weight on my arms, and Baz reaches for me, his lips finding mine. He’s done this every time I’ve pulled back for a breath and even when I was doing it just to tease him a few minutes ago. 

It makes my chest flare with heat now, though. These moments when he lets go, like he did last night when he swept me in his arms and snogged me to oblivion, like he’s doing now by reaching up—it’s the first break in that impervious wall he’s built around himself. 

It’s a chink in his armor. It’s a glimpse of the real Baz.

It’s intoxicating. Like a drug—I want more of it.

Which is why I shift until I’m kneeling between his legs and sit back on my heels. Baz frowns and I can see the mask start shifting into place, his eyes hooded now, brow furrowed. 

I reach out a hand and place it flat on his belly. Just press it there and lock eyes with him. He looks more puzzled than put out now. 

Good.  
  
“I don’t want to stop, Baz, but I think I need to.” I let my fingers gently knead the skin under my hand. “I think we need to.” I keep my hand in place still and Baz makes no move to pull his shirt down or change position. He’s just looking at me.  

I take a breath. “I could shag you on this sofa right this minute, trust me, but I don’t think that’s what either of us wants right now.”

“Speak for yourself, Simon.” Baz’s lip quirks up and his eyebrow arches as he speaks, so I know he’s teasing me now.

I like that I know that. I like that I’ve figured out some things about him.

Baz puts his hand over mine and I can feel it tremble just before he tightens his grip on my hand. “So what do you have in mind then, now that you’ve practically seduced me on your sofa?”

“No more seductions tonight. We’ve still not hammered out the ground rules.” 

Baz groans as he lets his head drop onto the armrest. “You’re such a fucking numpty, Simon. You’re the one who put a pause on all that earlier.” 

“Only because you were being unreasonable.” 

His hand lifts off mine and he pulls his jumper down as he starts to shift position. I snatch my hand away before it ends up brushing his groin.

Baz sits up against the armrest, one leg curled up under him, arms crossed. “It’s not unreasonable to point out that fraternizing outside of work venues is bound to become problematic.” 

And with that we’re at it again.

 

 

**Baz**

It’s hours later and somehow Simon has convinced me to stay for dinner, which is pasta with garlic and olive oil. It’s simple but somehow he makes it delicious. We’re on the sofa now, watching _Notting Hill_ , and despite the bickering earlier and the frisson of anxiety that’s been eating at me since this morning, I feel better than I have all week.

I’m going to do this. We’re going to do this. 

Whatever _this_ is.

We’ve got rules and policies and we’ve somehow managed to compromise on _Rule number three._

I suppose this means I’ll be seeing one of those blasted _Star Wars_ films at the theatre with him after all. 

 

 **Simon**  

It’s hours later when Baz finally makes good on his threat to leave. Not in frustration this time but just because it’s late and we both have to work tomorrow. He lingers at the door, thumb rubbing against my cheek, one hand at my waist.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” It’s just a whisper from him. “Do you have any idea how much self-control it’s going to take, to keep myself from whisking you into my office, locking the door, and snogging you into oblivion on my desk? 

I like the sound of that. The image in my head is tantalizing. 

“About as challenging as it’s going to be for me, with that cedar and bergamot scent of yours wafting in the corridors, enticing me to follow its trail, so I can find you and snog you senseless.”

Baz rests his forehead against mine. “We are completely fucked, I’ll have you know.” 

I tug on his hair. “We are not. I’ve been pining in isolation for months and I’ve managed.” I tug his hair again. “And now we’ve got something to look forward to after hours.” 

“You’re sure about this?” 

“How many times do I have to tell you?” 

His eyes close and he pulls me closer, resting his cheek against my hair. “Alright then.” I can feel his breath stir my curls. “Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> my thanks to BasicBathsheba for her enthusiasm for this fic and her consistent weeding out of my unfortunate Americanisms. 
> 
> many thanks to mudblood428, penpanoply and drvivc for their endless cheerleading and insight!


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